


And All Tomorrows

by orphan



Series: Frankenstein and the Newt [11]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Identity Porn, Kaiju Newton Geiszler, M/M, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Resolved Sexual Tension, Time Travel Fix-It, only human sex in this one sry monsterfuckers, ridiculous alternate universe relationship problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan
Summary: It's 4 January, 2025 and Hermann is having a bad week. Newt is having a terrible week. Newt is having a terribly weird week. Everyone else is mostly just weirded out.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: Frankenstein and the Newt [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/377038
Comments: 29
Kudos: 41





	1. 4 January, 2025

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ahahaha glad we got rid of all those ridiculous plotbunnies for this 'verse, hey?"
> 
> "... did we, though? Did we _really_?"
> 
> Also, there's a fair bit of custom formatting in this one, and while it's not strictly necessary it will look better with the custom fonts [described here](https://orphaned.monster/dat/orphans-ao3-skins/).
> 
>  _Is this the end_  
>  _I wanna know, I wanna love_  
>  _I want[a new beginning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRTwz4Z1_ss)._

It is exactly 0235 when the universe opens up and turns itself inside-out. Again.

This time, Hermann is there to witness it directly, through no fault of his own. He is in the lab, illuminated only by the glow of his own computers. It has been a trying day. The date is 4 January and Hong Kong’s winter has been especially cold and especially wet. They’ve even had sleet, _sleet_ , dribbling from the poisoned, dying sky and there are many, many things Hermann misses about London but the weather never was one of them. His hip is agony, his knee barely bends, every step feels like walking on glass and, to top it all off, Newton has found a new . . . _paramour_. Said gentleman is in a _band_. Tall and willowy and handsome, studded with glittering metal and blackened with more tattoos than even Newton. Also of kaiju, mostly the bones thereof, done in a harsh black-and-red style Newton had explained the history of, at length, yelled over the top of an execrable soundtrack of tortured guitars, facile lyrics, and honest-to-God recordings of kaiju roars. If asked before this day Hermann would not have said there was a single other individual on this withered, forsaken Earth more Newton than Newton and yet, apparently, there was a whole _band_ of them. Pacific Death Party (“They’re really going places, man.”), in fact, and _of_ _course_ they had to come to Hong Kong (“Like you know, dude, for _inspiration_!”) and _of course_ Newton had ended up in a . . . sexual relationship with the bassist. Of course. And of course he wants to tell Hermann about it. All day. At length. Of course.

Hermann, who has been in love with Newton—in quiet, shameful secret—for almost the entirety of his adult life. Even, so help him, after they’d met—that first time, so many years ago—and after which he’d no longer found Newton quite so _lovable_. His tortured heart had remained in love. And so, here he is. In too much agony to sleep, and too much . . . too _much_ to work. Sitting listlessly at his workstation, staring through the projected Breach, imagining a universe on the far side. One in which he is bold, and brash and, yes, maybe even . . . _tattooed_. One in which he is, in other words, someone Newton would find appealing. Maybe even love.

Stupid thoughts. Humiliating thoughts. 2am thoughts in an-already humiliating year, an apocalypse year, clock ticking down and time running out and no more miracles or Hail Marys and Hermann’s specialty is predictions and by that this is the year Hermann knows, he _knows_ , he is going to die. They’re all going to die. And he should care about that, and he does. He does. It just so happens that he cares more about dying alone and lonely and loveless even more.

And it is as he’s contemplating this that the lab is filled with light. Blinding light and roaring sound and something . . . else. Something Hermann has no words for; a feeling of primal, shrieking _wrongness_. He dives under his desk out of sheer, atavistic instinct, whole body screaming with the sudden motion and the impact. And in the middle of the cacophony he feels, more than hears, something enormously heavy hitting the laboratory floor.

A heartbeat later, everything is quiet. Just the gentle fluttering of displaced papers, drifting to the cement, and the odd smash of glassware, doing the same.

And Hermann who, a moment before, had been somewhere so far past exhausted the border had vanished beyond the horizon, is suddenly more awake that he ever has been before in his entire life.

And then, in the silence of the lab, he hears _something move_.

Oh, no. He was wrong. _Now_ he’s awake.

And Hermann thinks: _What was that?_

And he thinks: _Did a Breach just open in our lab?_

And he thinks: _No don’t be ridiculous._

And he thinks: _Oh Lord it’s moving._

The . . . thing in the lab is moving. Hermann can hear it, shuffling against the concrete. Shifting sounds, like . . . like something picking itself off the floor, for example. Then soft, deep _ptap ptap_ s, accompanied by almost-melodic little _tlick-tlick_ s. Walking, maybe? The light in the room has changed, shadow moving strangely on the chalkboards. Hermann hears a huff of breath, more animal than human, and before he can stifle it a whimper forces its way from his throat.

He slaps his hands over his mouth in horror, but even _that_ makes its own sound and, oh Lord. The movement has stopped. Hermann pulls himself as small and as tight under his workstation as he can manage. If he can stay small, and silent, then maybe the thing . . . maybe it will . . . it will . . .

What?

It will what? Leave to terrorize the rest of the ‘Dome?

 _I can call for help,_ Hermann rationalizes, desperate to not feel like a coward above the pounding of his heart and the roaring blood in his ears. _If it leaves, I can get help._ He’s trying not to think about what he thinks “it” is, exactly.

It’s stopped moving. And it’s that moment, trembling so hard he’s afraid it will shake the desk, Hermann sees his cane.

It’s fallen next to the desk, illuminated in an eerie, shifting blue Hermann hopes is the holoprojector. God, he hopes.

 _It won’t know what it is,_ he thinks. The hysteria is so close now he almost says it without realizing, choked out on the gasping breaths he’s trying to keep inside by force of his fingers, clamped across his lips. _It won’t know—_

And then the thing makes . . . a sound. It’s not a human sound. It’s not quite like any sound Hermann has ever heard before; a breathy purr, a hum, a sibilant hiss. Hermann chokes back another whimper, not effectively.

The _ptap-tlick_ comes closer. Then another sound, animal and alien, all at once: purr, hum, rumble. _Hrrrmmmn_.

 _It’s saying my name,_ Hermann thinks, hysterically.

But the sound is giving him a location. The . . . creature is not between him and the door. It’s closer to Newton’s side than his. He has a chance; if he runs, he can escape.

If he runs. _If_.

But if he doesn’t?

He can run. He _can_. Short distances, and it costs him, oh how it does. But he _can_ do it. If the choice was a short sprint or death, he could make it. On a good day.

Today is not a good day.

 _You’re overreacting,_ says a voice in his head that sounds like Father. _Stop this at once. You’ve just . . . You’re exhausted. You’ve hard a sound. You’re imagining things. There’s nothing there._

Oh, Lord, how he wishes this to be true.

_Just look. Gather your courage, boy, and look._

Okay. Yes. Okay. He can . . . he can do that. The sounds have stopped. Because they were never there. He’s been imagining them. Of course he has. There’s nothing here. All he needs do is drag himself—stiffly, painfully—to the edge of the desk. To pull himself around the edge, and . . .

And Hermann does so. Then screams.

He was not imagining the sounds. There is . . . something in the lab.

Hermann’s thought is that the . . . something is a kaiju, which is ridiculous, because it’s orders of magnitude too small. But it is alien, and monstrous. Squatting low over the line between his side of the lab and Newton’s. It is _looking right at him_ , head lowered. Six brilliant neon-blue eyes, arrayed across a charcoal grey face, lock with Hermann’s, and in that moment, there is no other choice.

Hermann scrambles to his feet, and runs.

Or . . . he tries.

He gets exactly two steps before his leg gives out. A cramp, screaming agony as muscles try and shift both ways at once and end up in nothing bar tight balls of agony. Hermann cries out, in pain and fear and frustration, arms pinwheeling, toppling forward and—

The ground shudders. Once, twice. And just before Hermann’s nose is about to become intimately acquainted with polished concrete, enormous alien talons wrap around his body.

So Hermann closes his eyes and waits to die. It’s strangely . . . soothing. His head feels decidedly odd, like he’s he far too much to drink, and his body very far away, and the creature’s enormous paws are strangely warm and the thought chokes a hysterical giggle from his throat.

 _Well,_ he thinks. _Of the two of us, I was not the one I expected to be eaten by a kaiju._

He can _smell_ it. Not quite the reeking rot of Newton’s abhorrent samples but undeniably the same at the core; salt and chemical and sharp. But . . . pleasant, almost. Familiar. Like sauerkraut.

The world moves. Hermann’s back is, quite abruptly, tremendously cold. He just has time to register this when his entire leg lights up not in agony, but _relief_. Warmth and pressure, gently feeling down the twisted femur, _pushing_ against the tortured muscles of his thigh. He sobs from the feel of it, hands scrabbling uselessly against what he realizes is the lab’s floor.

Hermann isn’t dead. He’s been laid out, in fact. On his back, on the floor. And strong, warm hands are massaging his leg with the sort of expert precision an entire lifetime of physiotherapists can only dream of.

And, slowly, the pain recedes. The pain, and the panic, and quite suddenly Hermann remembers that he was trying to escape a monster, and lurches upright.

This both earns another purring trill and sends another bolt of agony shooting through his body. He curls around it, whimpering, and once again large, warm hands gently catch him, offer support as he uncurls, scooting backwards until his spine his the edge of his desk.

He takes one choking breath. Then another. Everything he can see—the wool of his vest over his stomach, his trousers, his shoes, the floor—is cast in a eerie, terrifyingly familiar blue.

Almost in spite of himself, Hermann looks up.

The . . . kaiju is there. Is is _right there_ , shark-like snout inches from Hermann’s face. He lets loose another sob; a sound of utter, primal terror. And in response the kaiju . . .

It moves back. Not far, just enough it’s no longer looming right over Hermann. Somewhat hysterically, he notes it has four arms. The top two incredibly large, almost the size of Hermann’s whole body, the second two—the two that had _massaged Hermann’s leg_ —proportioned more like a man’s. It’s holding all of them up, palms out. Placating, almost. It has almost human-like fingers. Even the larger hands are more mammalian than the insect-like scythes of most kaiju. What a strange thing to notice.

“Oh Lord,” Hermann gasps.

The kaiju—and it is a kaiju, it _has_ to be, Hermann can’t fathom what else it could possible be, regardless of its size or anything else—the kaiju takes another step backwards. It thrusts its hands forward in a quick motion, claws spread. Like it’s imploring Hermann to stay put (like he could go anyway, in his current state). Then it pushes itself up onto its haunches and looks about the room.

It finds what it’s looking for quickly, big claw darting out to retrieve, of all things, a notepad and pen from Hermann’s desk. Then it _starts to write_.

“Oh dear Lord,” says Hermann.

When it’s done, the sound of the tearing page makes Hermann’s body jolt and his poor, abused heart trip. But the only thing the kaiju does it hand Hermann the piece of paper.

The paper that says, in the overly cautious (and somehow familiar) block letters of someone unused to writing neatly:

Hey Hermsann sorry for scaring you.

TL;DR version I think this is time travel? or an alternate universe? Fuck I hope it’s an alternate universe and I’m not like fucking marty mcflying myself out of existence right now? Fuck

TL;DR x2 we were in here working on some breach stuff when idk I guess I fucked up? You’re totally cursing me out right now I can tell but on the plus side you shuld feel totes vindicated cuz like your dumb machine worked but also pls pls pls help me get home oh godly math nerd lord of physics doctor Gottlieb Prime sir

xoxox

P.s. yes I’m a kaiju (kaijin technically) yes I can talk (well read/write/understand) no I won’t hurt you great we got that out of the way I fucking hate that bit

Hermann reads this, then reads it again. It has not changed in the time between. He _saw_ the kaiju write it. He looks at the kaiju, just it be sure. It looks back at him, alien and strange but . . . expectant. It does not attempt to attack or otherwise hurt him. If anything, it’s done the opposite.

“Oh God,” says Hermann.

The kaiju starts writing again. This time, the piece of paper it hands to Hermann reads:

You OK dude?

Hermann’s hands a shaking so hard he has trouble reading the words. When he finally manages, he starts giggling, high and hysterical.

He’s handed another note:

Yea OK not OK

Try not to kill me but I’m gonna take you to the sofa, then I’ll make you a nice boring cup of tea while you remember how to do the whole stiff upper lip shtick

Hermann barely has time to process this—process the fact that a kaiju apparently knows some Yiddish, of all things—before the creature’s large hands are sliding behind his back. He startles at the contact, and the creature freezes, trilling gently and waiting for Hermann to settle. Somehow, Hermann does so, and finds himself helped to his feet, and from there to the lab’s ratty old sofa.

Oh, Lord. He’s _touching a kaiju_. He’s on Newton’s side of the lab and he’s touching a kaiju and Newton isn’t here to see it and, Lord, Newton’s going to kill him. Forget the kaiju. Newton is going to kill him.

At some point, Hermann starts shaking and can’t seem to stop.

“I’m not— I’m not c-cold,” he stutters, almost without meaning to, as the kaiju is busy settling him onto the couch. It somehow knows exactly the way to arrange him, legs stretched out, and steals a lab coat from Newton’s chair to ball up and elevate Hermann’s bad leg. It’s even remembered to bring his _cane_ , and leave it propped within reach. And because it has four hands, while it’s doing this it can also write another note, which it gives to Hermann when he’s settled. It reads:

Shock, totally normal

Gonna get you to breathe with me OK?

In 2 3 out 2 3 in 2 3

Like that

Hermann does this, almost without realizing it, as he’s reading the words. The kaiju picks up his rhythm and guides him through it when the words run dry, enormous lungs hauling in breath, exhaling it in noisy, salt-sour gusts that ruffle Hermann’s hair.

Strangely, it’s the smell, more than anything else, that starts bringing him back to himself. That settles his breath and slows his heart and starts reordering the chaos in his mind. Albeit not quite enough of the latter not to blurt:

“You smell of sauerkraut.”

The kaiju just rolls its eyes—it has quite a lot of eyes, as it turns out, including a large number of glowing spots Hermann had previously assumed as decorative—and makes a muppet motion with one of its small hands. _Yeah yeah yeah,_ Hermann translates.

“I . . . forgive me, that was rude.” He is quite possibly the first person on the planet to talk to a sentient extraterrestrial lifeform. One not trying to kill him, even. The absolute least he can do is be polite.

Oh, Lord. This is a responsibility he was not ready for. Where is Newto— no, actually. Forget that. Where is literally anyone else. Hermann has trouble enough with humans; liaising with alien races is not something he is prepared for, regardless of how much _Doctor Who_ he may or may not have watched in his time.

The kaiju has a bifurcated lower jaw, which Hermann notices because it opens, each side slightly at slightly different angles, like a Hon Solo smirk. One that glows. And is filled with terrifyingly large teeth. The kaiju makes a series of complicated gestures Hermann recognizes as sign language, even if he doesn’t understand the words, though it ends with an empathic pointing Hermann interprets quite clearly as _stay there_. As if Hermann could go anywhere in this state. His body still aches abysmally and his limbs feel limp and coltish to boot. About the most he’s currently capable of is watching in a sort of dazed stupor as the kaiju goes to the lab’s little ad hoc kitchenette and begins preparing its promised cup of tea. It really . . . does know how to make tea. Seems entirely familiar with the layout of the lab, in fact.

Hermann flicks back through the stack of passed notes, and there it is: _we were in here working on some breach stuff_. We.

“You . . . you know me,” Hermann blurts, somewhat belatedly.

The kaiju looks at him as it waits for the battered old electric kettle to boil, then nods.

“Oh, I. Um. I haven’t the pleasure?” Hermann tries.

This earns him a snort, then another note, folded into a paper airplane and deftly thrown his way. It lands right on Hermann’s chest and the text inside reads:

I know you’re feeling better if you’re gonna get all British on me

And before he can stop himself, Hermann is saying: “I’m from Bavaria, actually. Though I spent my formative years in England.” As he says this latter part, the kaiju begins signing again and somehow Hermann _knows_ it’s signing exactly the words he’s saying, as he’s saying them.

Which, of course, gets Hermann’s back right up, as it always does when he’s being mocked, and he snaps: “Oh, well. Excuse me for assuming _an alien_ was not familiar with my geographic history.” Which: Oh Lord it’s been less than ten minutes and he’s already getting into an argument with the alien. He’s going to start panicking again, he can feel it.

Except the next paper airplane contains the words:

Not an alien, just not human

I was born on earth too

“Hah” Hermann says as he reads this, feeling rather giddy. “A-hah!”

The kaiju is coming back towards him, cup of tea (Hermann’s favorite cup, in fact, with the tweed pattern made from Jaeger code) in its small hands. It gives Hermann what can only be a quizzical look and he elaborates:

“Newton. My, uh. My colleague. He has a theory all kaiju are clones. But if you were _born_ , then hah! Incorrect.”

Another note:

Jeez your predictable

He’s mostly right for daikaiju FWIW its just kaijin are a bit different

I’m guessing you don’t have us here yet

Hermann scowls at this, taking a sip of tea as it’s handed to him. “You said before you thought, uh, time travel may have been involved? In your arrival?” Then because, as mentioned, he really did spend his formative years in Britain: “Also this is . . . this is excellent tea, thank you.”

The kaiju nods, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa (it’s too big to sit on anything else, Hermann assumes, particularly given a good third of its body is a finned tail almost as long as a person). The next note reads:

You called me names until I got it right :P

And yeah you always maintained there was all kinds of funky time dilation thing going on with the Breach

Guess you were right, score one Dr G

Also what’s the date BTW? Time? I’m guessing fuck off early? It feels fuck off early. P sure that’s Mutavore over there so Dec 24?

Hermann has no idea is this is supposed to mean 24 December or December, 2024, but supposes it doesn’t matter.

“January 3rd,” he says, then rethinks. “Well. 4th now, I suppose. 2025.”

The kaiju’s iridescent eyes bulge, comically surprised. It’s next note is a furious scrawl:

Holy shit dude

That’s like t-minus 8 max

Fucking hell OK

I can save you guys a metric shiton of pain

Pay me back by helping me get home after this is over OK ;)

“You know about the double event,” Hermann surmises. “Yes I suppose you do, and—” It suddenly occurs to him, really viscerally occurs, that he’s _talking to a kaiju_. A kaiju that can talk. That apparently _wants_ to talk, and be friendly, and helpful and: “Lord you could tell us _so much_. The Breach! Do you know— please—” He can barely even say it, in case the answer is no.

He’s trying to scramble upright in his excitement—he’s not sure what he’ll _do_ , exactly, when he is, only that it has to be something—except enormous, strong hands are pushing him gently down. The next note he’s handed almost stops his heart:

Yeah I know how to close the Breach, kind of

I mean I know how to close THIS breach but if our universe is anything to go by it’s just gonna piss the AV off even more, and they’ll hit back

So I gotta talk to the Ma oh wow Stacker is still

I gotta talk to the Marshall about it first

But we gotta wait til it opens anyway so there are a few days to prep, nothing that you need to bust a gut over immediately right now

Also if you could like IDK big ups me to Stacker so he doesn’t have me shot I’d totally owe you man

(Bullets don’t work but its the principal of the thing)

“Oh God,” says Hermann. Two hours ago he was sure this was the year humanity made its final stand, the year of true extinction. And now . . . “We could end this. We could . . . we could really . . .”

The kaiju sighs, and even in something so alien Hermann recognizers the exhaustion, the loss. He blinks, looking at the kaiju, really _looking_ at it, as it writes its next note. Hermann is hardly an expert but even he can see the scars on its hide, the weary slump of its shoulders, and he knows what the next note is going to say even before it’s handed to him.

Sorry to be the Bad News Bears but it’s not over even for us

We’re still fighting, and we don’t know how to “win”

But I’ll totally tell you everything I can and IDK maybe you guys can like get a head start and one up us even

That’d be cool, it’d be good to know at least SOMEWHERE out there didn’t

The last line is scribbled out, barely legible. And suddenly Hermann’s heart aches, for this bizarre and bizarrely earnest creature, ashamed that it can only bring them a miracle, not the gates of Heaven themselves.

“It’s still . . .” Oh Lord. Hope. He feels _hope_ , for the first time in years. “Thank you.” Almost without thinking, he reaches out to touch the kaiju as he says it. The creature startles a little at the contact, glancing at where Hermann’s hand rests on the smooth, pebbled skin of its large arm. But it doesn’t move to pull away.

* * *

“Yo Herms I hope you are ready for an _amazing_ day because guess who totally got la _ooooauitktch_ —”

And then, somehow, it’s 0748, and Newton is there.

He is, very obviously, still wearing the clothes from yesterday and, very obviously, has either not slept or slept very little. It’s only from his presence that Hermann realizes he’s spent the last, good Lord, four hours going over Breach theories with their new guest.

The kaiju is, in a word, brilliant. Quite possibly one of the most intelligent beings Hermann has ever had the pleasure of meeting. Even its professed quote-unquote “basic bitch” understanding of mathematics and physics would leave most doctoral students in the dust and Hermann’s head is reeling from having learnt more in the last four hours than he feels he has in the last thirty-odd years of his life, even as the kaiju has sheepishly admitted it’s mostly just regurgitating what it can remember of _Hermann’s own future discoveries_ to him.

At some point it did, in fact, occur to Hermann he may have, in fact, died. Dropped dead of exhaustion, right in the lab. Maybe Hermann died and ascended and this is his reward, for a life spent trying to save the world. A strange fantasy where a bizarre messenger has come to help fulfill his life’s work and perhaps the only reason Hermann had discounted this, asides from ego, had been the fact his body is still in truly, visceral physical agony.

Also, he truly cannot believe in any kind of afterlife or world to come in which Newton stumbles into the lab boasting and reeking of booze and sex.

Newton, who is frozen in the middle of some kind of alarming pinwheeling gesture, staring.

“Doctor Geiszler?” That sound had been truly quite alarming.

“Hi Hermann! How are you this morning! Great I hope!” Newton’s voice is so high pitched Hermann is shocked Max doesn’t come immediately running to investigate.

Hermann’s chat application dings.

he thinks im not real and that hes gone crazy and is hallucinating

“Oh,” says Hermann. “Er, right. Doctor Geiszler, um. You’ll, ah, see we have received an . . . unusual visitor in the night.”

And the chat window dings again with:

fucking nailed it dude great job

And Newton screeches:

“It’s _real_?!”

And promptly faints dead away.

* * *

“A kaiju?! A tiny-ass fucking kaiju fell into the lab overnight and _you didn’t call me immediately_?! What the _fuck_ dude!!!”

As a young man, Hermann had read a great deal of the writing of the late Mr. Terry Pratchett and had, subsequently, become quite a convert to the notion that no sentence should ever be allocated more than one exclamation point, and certainly never an exclamation point _and_ a question mark simultaneously. As with everything in Hermann’s life, this is a resolution he’s finding sorely tested by one Newton Geiszler.

0947\. Newton had spent some time passed out, woken up, stuttered halfway through a, “Oh dude I had the weirdest dream—” before seeing the kaiju for a second time and nearly fainting, for a second time.

After that, Hermann had conceded it had probably been time to fetch some adults for the room, as it were, and had summoned the Marshal. That encounter had been . . . tense. Actually, the Marshal had immediately attempted to attack their new visitor; Hermann has never, ever, seen Stacker Pentecost quite so . . . out-of-sorts as in that moment, and hopes never to again.

Needless to say, physically attacking a kaiju, even a very small one, with no weapons had not covered the Marshal in glory. The kaiju, for its part, had simply patiently dodged and blocked attacks until the Marshal had taken a step back, breathing heavily, expression incredulous. When he’d moved back in for a second bout, his strikes had been notably different. Hermann is no expert in the pugilistic arts but has certainly watched plenty of Rangers train and can recognize the more ritualistic movements of a formal match when he sees them. Which, certainly. Why not. Why wouldn’t their new visitor be a . . . a trained black belt, as well as everything else? Of course.

And then eventually the Marshal had stepped back, and bowed slightly—the kaiju had returned the gesture, far more formally and deeply—and said:

“Does someone want to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on in here?” Which, oh dear. What a day of firsts.

And so they have been evicted from the laboratory, ostensibly for the Marshal to interrogate the kaiju on his own. For quite some time, as it’s turning out.

“And it _talks_? It fucking talks! What the actual fuck man? This is just . . . this is—” Newton has been going on in this vein for quite some time, sitting on the floor outside the lab, staring at the floor between his knees, fingers gripped tightly in his greasy hair. Hermann wonders if he should go make them both a cup of tea. He wonders if he should try and . . . pat Newton’s head? Offer some form of physical comfort? Lord but he’s bad at this. The _kaiju_ had been better though, Hermann supposes, it’s also probably more used to people reacting poorly to its presence. The thought makes him quite inexplicably sad for the poor thing.

“It believes it’s here from an alternate future,” Hermann says about said creature, because Newton has hyperventilated himself into a state where Hermann can get an explanation in. “Apparently it was, ah, running some Breach experiments with its universe’s version of myself. It has requested my assistance in sending it back after . . . after it has assisted us with our Breach.” He hasn’t told Newton the kaiju knows a way to close it. He doesn’t know why.

Newton look up at him like he’s just suggested they detonate the moon. “Why would you send it _back_?”

 _Because it made me tea,_ Hermann thinks. _And it brought me my chair to rest on while we wait. And its typing is atrocious and it’s brilliant and funny and . . . and I haven’t felt this way about someone since—_

“Because it’s not from here, obviously,” he snaps. Far more viciously than the comment warrants, if Newton’s flinch is anything to go by.

“Jesus, fuck all right calm down.” He kicks out a half-laced boot. Not at anything, just for the physical act of motion. “I know you fucking hate them. It’s just . . . we could learn so much from it!”

A cold pit of horror opens in Hermann’s stomach. Surely he doesn’t mean . . . “It is a _sentient life-form_ ,” he snarls. “And has been nothing but helpful since arriving. You will not . . . not vivisect it to satisfy your curiosity!”

Newton’s look, if anything, gets even more incredulous. And long enough, and silent enough, that Hermann feels the heat rise in his cheeks the way it always does, those rare moments he feels Newton truly _sees_ him. Rare, dangerous, _thrilling_ moments. Because it Newton could see him, truly see him—everything he is and loves and _wants—_ then . . .

Then nothing. Nothing good. Obviously.

He looks away, sniffing, hands clenching on the head of his cane.

And then Newton says:

“I think it’s a spy.”

“ _What_?”

“Think about it. This whole . . . alternate future dimension shit is whack, man. That’s not even how multiverse shit works, you _know_ that—”

“I absolutely do not!” Well . . . Newton’s not wrong about the science, exactly. But multiverse theories had been exactly that; theories. And then the Anteverse had started belching monsters into the ocean and, well. Hermann can certainly see an argument for reevaluating certain previous assumptions.

And, of all things, Newton begins to laugh. Cold and hysterical. “Fuck you, dude,” he says. “All this fucking time you waltz around shitting on everything I do and calling me ‘kaiju gr-rr-rr-oupie’ in your shitty fake accent and then the second, the _fucking nanosecond_ , one falls into your fucking lab and, I don’t even know, writes you a fucking love note you’re falling all over yourself to suck its giant alien dic—”

“Doctor Geiszler that is _enough_!” Hermann’s cheeks are absolutely not burning. They are _not_. Because Newton is an imbecile with the emotional intelligence of a whelk and he knows nothing, _nothing_ , and—

“Just . . . go fuck yourself, _Doctor_ ,” Newton snaps. He kicks out again at nothing, hard enough to send his boot flying across the corridor. “You prissy, sneering, hypocritical piece of _shit_!” Punctuated by tearing his other boot off, and throwing it to join the first.

And Hermann is inhaling and can feel the bile and the venom building in his chest and he can’t stop it, no matter how much he might want to, not this time or any other time and of course that is the moment, the exact moment, the lab door opens and Marshal Pentecost marches out.

“Sir!” Hermann’s rage falls apart like gravitational collapse, and he scrambles painfully to his feet. Newton follows in his wake, all socked feet and pinwheeling arms Hermann will never, _ever_ admit to finding endearing, especially not now.

“Gentlemen,” says the Marshal. He looks . . . poleaxed. There’s no other word for it. “Doctor, uh. Doctor K has established his credentials to my satisfaction. He is an officer of the PPDC and a lead researcher with K-Science, and has graciously offered to share with us as much of his— his universe’s knowledge as he can. This is . . . this is a highly unusual yet quite frankly miraculous opportunity. I expect you will not waste it.”

“Absolutely not, sir,” Hermann says, while Newton is busy staring at the kaiju—at Doctor K, apparently—with a kind of . . . of _rage_ Hermann finds, frankly, startling.

“Excellent, excellent,” says the Marshal, distant and strange. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to— I need . . .” And then wanders off, muttering to himself. Hermann supposes it’s an acceptable reaction.

Newton, meanwhile, has exploded back into the lab, not even bothering to retrieve his boots. Hermann has barely made it to the door when he hears the piercingly outrage shriek of:

“You are _not a doctor_! No way! I refuse!”

K is over on Newton’s side of the lab, inspecting the piles of half-dissected viscera. Hermann is suddenly struck with the notion of what a true nightmare butcher’s shop it must seem, to another kaiju.

Newton has not had a similar revelation, and has instead stormed right up to K, scolding finger inches from the creature’s (the man’s?) enormous teeth. It just looks back, jaw opening in amusement, and when some of its eyes catch Hermann’s across the room, it _winks_.

Hermann stifles a laugh, and goes back to his workstation.

“What?” Newton is shrieking. “You’re telling me _you_ went to college? Got a degree? Got a doctorate? Give me a fucking—” K holds up some fingers, and Hermann thinks Newton may, in fact, have an aneurism and die. “ _Eight_!? You do not have eight doctorates!!! Go fuck yourself no I don’t believe it! You can’t even sit in a lecture hall!”

K shrugs, as if to indicate Newton’s credulity its not required to validate his empirical reality.

Newton actually screams in response; a pure, legitimate, inarticulate shout of rage. Then he spins on his kaiju-socked heel.

“No! Fuck this shit, man! I’m out, I’m done! Have a nice fucking life without me, assholes!”

“Newton!” Hermann is on his feet, moving to intercept. He isn’t sure what he’ll do or say when he gets there but . . . this reaction is . . . concerning. They have a real, live, sentient, _agreeable_ kaiju in their lab. This should be Newton’s dream. Not . . . Whatever this is.

Newton moves fast and Hermann does not, but it’s K that intercepts him, throwing a big arm in Hermann’s way as they both watch Newton flee the lab.

“I—” Hermann starts, then doesn’t know what to say. “Someone should . . . check. That’s he’s alright.”

K sighs, enormous head shaking as he lowers his arm. He makes a complicated series of signs with his small hands, talking to himself, Hermann supposes. But he gets the gist: _let him go_.

“I, um. I would say he’s not usually like this but, well. He rather is.”

K gives a short, barking laugh, hands saying something Hermann suddenly, desperately wishes he understood.

“I, er. I suppose you have one too? In your universe?” he tries.

A nod.

“Do you know each other well?” Hermann rather got the impression K knew _his_ doppelgänger well, and for all their screaming fights, imagining a universe in which Newton was not a constant in his life was . . . unappealing.

So he isn’t exactly surprised when K huffs, and nods, and signs something, and Hermann follows up with: “Do you get on?”

This gives K pause, and Hermann deeply, viscerally understands the sentiment. Who wouldn’t pause, he thinks, if asked the same question? When K rocks a large hand back and forth in the air, Hermann nods in sympathy.

“He’s a good man,” he says because, despite everything, he believes it to be true. “Volatile, but brilliant. I would’ve thought he’d be ecstatic over you. I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

K just sighs, hands saying something long and complex Hermann desperately wishes he understood.

* * *

Doctor K clears a space on Newton’s side of the lab, takes a laptop from a nearby desk, and settles himself in for a vigorous day of, effectively, peer review. Hermann sets him up with an account to the lab’s network, and almost immediately starts receiving a slew of his own papers and notes, marked-up with K’s comments. He’s there for around twenty minutes before the sneezing starts. The sound is startling enough to nearly knock Hermann off his ladder. The first sneeze is followed by another, then another, and finally K groans and knocks on the wall. It’s definitely an attention-getting knock, and when Hermann looks over, K very deliberately presses enter on his laptop.

Hermann’s own computer chimes its message chime.

When he gets down, the messages waiting for him say:

sorry its the chalk

kaiju are super fucking allergic

like not anaphylactic allergic I wont die or whatevs

just be miserable lol

“Oh my.” Hermann almost types it, out of habit, before realizing K can hear him perfectly well. “That . . . you should have said so earlier. Also, that is _tremendously_ useful information. Have you weaponized it at all?” Then, realizing that may not have been . . . _the_ most politic thing: “Apologies, that—”

nah its good

and yea

its not super practical for daikaiju cause of the volume you need but the grunts have calcite canisters they use on kaijin

kinda like tea gas I guess? doesnt quite fuck you up as much cause of the whole indefinite-breath-holding thing but it fucks with your vision and is definitely a “do not be here” feeling

was working on testing compounds to see if we can get the volume-effect ratio to something we can stick on a jaeger but a) theres only so much gassinig-myself-for-science I can deal with in a month and b) things kind of . . . moved on, so its not such a tip-top idea anymore

“You . . . were testing this on _yourself_?”

A lazy shrug.

not like there was anyone else around

Hermann scowls at the implications of this, an uneasy feeling collecting in his gut. “Are . . . are you the only one of your— No, no you said there were others.”

its complicated

and I don’t wanna talk about it because Reasons

but yeah there’ve been others and yeah I’m the only one thats . . . like me

so far

“I understand,” says Hermann, who knows a thing or two about not wanting to discuss painful personal issues with coworkers. Of which this sounds like quite a doozy. “Thank you for telling me what you have.”

all good dude

I said id tell u whatever I could

Hermann is thinking of what to say to that, watching the little triple-dot bubble of _Doc K is typing . . ._ appear and disappear when someone clears their throat, and they both look up to see the Marshal standing in the doorway.

“N— Doctor K, it’s time.” He seems to’ve collected himself from this morning, though there’s still a sort wildness to his eyes.

K gives a big thumbs up and stands, following the Marshal from the room with a wave in Hermann’s direction. Hermann does not ask where they’re going, just accepts Pentecost’s nodded, “Doctor,” as he passes. Then they’re gone, and Hermann sighs, looks up, and beings the daunting task of cleaning and removing his chalkboards.

* * *

“I heard Hansen broke his hand tryin’a deck it.”

“Shit, man. You think you’ve seen every crazy thing, right?”

1403\. Doctor K still hasn’t returned from wherever the Marshal has taken him, Hermann aches everywhere from hauling as many of his boards as he could manage into storage and photographing and cleaning the rest. Plus a good dust-over everything else for good measure. Allergic to chalk. Amazing. And something they never could’ve found out any other way.

“Supposedly, it knows how to close the Breach.”

So now he’s seeking a late repast in mess and, as expected, the entire Shatterdome is talking about exactly one thing.

“That’s fucked up, man. No matter what it says, I wouldn’t trust it. Even if it is a smart one or a . . . a traitor or whatever shit those fuckers are trying to kill us! They should lock it the fuck up.”

“Or let Geiszler cut it up. I bet he’s practically nutting himself at the thought of it.”

“Fucker’s crazier than a sack of skinmites but at least he’s fucking _human_ , y’know?”

Hermann sighs, and takes an extra tray of limp, too-warm kappamaki and kakuni onigiri. Lord but Hermann misses fish. It occurs to him that, if the next few days . . . work, then maybe he’ll start seeing it again soon.

He doesn’t eat in the mess, and not just because of the company. Instead, he grabs an extra little plastic bowl of wasabi, and chopsticks, and begins his slow limp down to Newton’s quarters.

The man still hasn’t made a reappearance since this morning, and Hermann knows, just _knows_ , he’ll be holed up in his room, sending himself deaf with his terrible music, stewing in his own piles of filthy clothing and unmade bedding and discarded junk food wrappers. This proves to be exactly the case, and the fact Hermann even recognizes the song blaring through the bulkhead door (“Extinction Rebellion” by Pacific Death Party, because _of course_ ) really, he thinks, says something about his life.

It takes a good five minutes pounding and screaming at Newton’s door for the man himself to appear. He looks . . .

Well. On the one hand, he’s wearing boxers and socks and absolutely nothing else. Not the first time Hermann has seen him in such a state of undress, but one that is always . . . interesting. Newton undressed is even more obnoxious and loud than Newton clothed, and definitely more . . . himself. Which could potentially be considered a negative, to someone other than Hermann, who has always found Newton’s himself infuriatingly alluring.

On the other hand, Newton looks like utter shite. His ridiculous hair is unflatteringly flat, he’s obviously been crying and is trying to pretend he hasn’t, and he reeks. Physically, which is something Hermann will never admit to anyone ever than he finds somewhat appealing, but also emotionally. Of exhaustion. Which Hermann finds decidedly less enticing.

He also greets Hermann with a snapped:

“Whatever the fuck you’re here to chew me out about, I don’t give a shit, okay? Write a complaint and die mad about it.”

Hermann says:

“I brought you lunch,” and holds out the box of sushi, the chopsticks, the extra wasabi.

Newton stares at the items like they’re an unexpected kaiju, dropped overnight into the lab, and the moment stretches. Then some more. Then Newton blinks, scrunches his nose to push up his glasses (something Hermann would not even confess at gunpoint to finding adorable), and finally, _finally_ says:

“Oh.”

“Take the lunch, Newton.” Hermann tries to keep the waspish edge out of his voice, though it’s something of a futile task. Hermann was born waspish and it will likely be on his grave after he dies. It’s just how he _is_.

Newton takes the lunch. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Hermann says and, Lord help him, means it. “Newton, about this morning—”

“I don’t— I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Alright.” Another awful, awkward silence. Hermann viciously stamps down the desire to push Newton back into his room, to drag him down into the filthy bedding and hold him and make him _sleep_ , warm and soft and quiet, if only for a little while. “Shall I expect to see you this afternoon?”

A shrug, and Hermann is suddenly hit with the strangest sense of déjà vu. Which . . . of course he’s seen Newton shrug before. Except . . .

“Uh. Nah, I don’t think . . . I’m pretty wrecked, man.”

“Understandable, you’ve been working tremendously hard.”

“Yeah, well . . . you know. Double event, extinction of the whole human race, et cetera.” Then, almost to himself: “Guess I’m not needed for _that_ anymore.”

And Hermann thinks: _Oh._ That’s _what all this nonsense has been about._ Somehow, miraculously, he avoids saying this out loud. He supposes it’s only fair; his day, while decidedly strange and tremendously painful, has otherwise been rather good. And it is in this spirit of great caritas that he says:

“Newton, the Breach could close right now and every kaiju and piece thereof vanish from the universe forever and that would still not be true.” And then feels immensely foolish for saying it.

Newton seems to think so too, judging from the way he’s gaping. And rather unflatteringly at that. “Uh—”

“Eat your lunch and get some rest.” Hermann steps back, shifting awkwardly and refusing to meet Newton’s eyes. “The world will be here for you when you wake up.”

And for the first time in over a decade, he believes it to be true.

* * *

That night, Hermann dreams of warm, strong hands and snarling kaiju.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw your generally staid canon-esque universe gets gatecrashed by the weirdo fanfic 'verse from next door
> 
>  _And you know I might_  
>  _Have just flown too far_  
>  _From the floor this time_  
>  _'Cause they[calling me by my name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hc16Y9fiCvQ)._


	2. 5 January, 2025

On 5 January, Hermann walks into the lab a little after seven to the sound of guitars. Or rather, one guitar. That Doctor K is playing.

The kaiju is in the corner of the lab, playing Newton’s guitar. Quite well, too, or at least as near as Hermann can tell. It’s Newton’s sort of music, shrieking and distorted, but K’s fingers move incredibly deftly over the instrument, and Hermann has to admire the skill of it, if not necessarily the volume or the genre, in the way he always does, those few times he’s caught Newton in here doing the same.

Hermann, who _enjoys_ music (contemporary music, even; something he knows Newton would be dreadfully shocked to learn), but has all the actual musical talent of a deaf camel, and who admires demonstrations of skill in all their forms. Sadly, he does not get to admire long; K has significantly more eyes than Newton does, for one, and cuts himself off when he see’s Hermann approach.

“Sorry,” Hermann says, nonsensically. “I didn’t mean to, uh—” What? _Come into work and expect a “professional environment”?_ Newton’s voice mocks him from the inside of his own head, and Hermann tries not to wince.

K does something to the amplifier, and when he starts playing once more, the sound is both significantly quieter and also very, very familiar. Even with the wrong instrument.

“Is that . . .” Hermann draws closer. “Is that Madness?”

He gets a grin and a nod, K tapping out the song’s backbeat against the concrete with his huge, curved claws.

“Saturday Night Sunday Morning” and, Lord, but Hermann loves this song. Spent many a night drunk and stupid and young, belting it out in grimy pubs with idiot mates, except K keeps playing the intro, over and over, and _pointing_ at Hermann and—

“Oh. Oh, no.” He takes a step back. No, he is not singing. Absolutely not. Except K keeps doing it and Hermann keeps inching closer and finally he can’t stand it and he blurts:

“What’re you lookin’ at?” The man _is_ helping them save the world, after all. Surely indulging him a little is the least Hermann can do?

K gives a strange, joyful whooping, and so Hermann sings, voice awkward and tremulous:

“I knew you’d come back. We always do.”

And it’s _fun_. Heaven help him but it’s fun. Hermann’s voice isn’t the strongest but K reaches out with his big claws and pushes back Hermann’s shoulders and tilts up his chin and . . . it helps. And then they get to the saxophone solo and _K_ sings it, voice strange and alien but he’s very obviously done this before, and it _works_ , and Hermann is laughing so hard he misses the intro for the last chorus, but of course it doesn’t matter, and they end up doing the final _ooh ooh ooh ooh_ together and it’s okay. It’s really, really going to be okay. They’re going to close the Breach and maybe something else will happen but something else always happens, and at least it won’t be this.

* * *

Newton runs in a little after eleven, long after any incriminating traces of fun have been put away, and shrieks:

“The hive mind is _real_?!”

Apparently he’s been reading Doctor K’s emails.

The rest of the morning is . . . loud, but whatever maudlin funk had captured Newton yesterday has apparently lifted, and Doctor K doesn’t hold it against him. And Newton has always warmed up quickly to anyone prepared to seriously listen to his insane theories, which Doctor K does, conforming far more of them than Hermann really expected.

There are just two . . . small hiccups.

The first is that K will not, under any circumstances, allow Newton to take any biological samples, particularly blood. He maintains the reason is safety—apparently there is something quite uniquely dangerous about the kaijin not shared by their larger brethren, a weapon not yet present in their present timeline—and, in this, has the Marshal on his side. While K is out of the lab, apparently giving the Rangers a crash-course in kaiju hand-to-hand, Newton even gets halfway through a scheme to covertly obtain what he describes as “living Kaiju Blue, dude, seriously” before Hermann snaps:

“For Heaven’s sake. He’s already helping us save the bloody planet. At least give him the courtesy of autonomy over his own body. He doesn’t want you cutting him open and that should be the bloody end of it.”

“It’s _for science_ , dude!” comes the response. “The advances we could make in— in cellular regeneration alone . . .” Newton makes an explosion sound, hands gesturing around his head. “If it were me, I’d be fucking all over that shit!”

“Well he’s not you, is he!” There’s that voice again, like wasps and bile, spilling over his tongue. Hermann wonders how it is Newton draws it out so easily. (Tries not to think of this morning, of listening to his own voice and finding it _good_ for once in his miserable, sodding life. Of using it to make someone else feel good, too.) “So stop bloody acting like he is! He’s already told us his reasons; it’s _dangerous_. He’s not trying to— to _slight_ you by taking away your precious toys! He’s trying to stop whatever awful weapon the Anteverse buried inside him from getting _out_.”

“Oh and you’re just gonna take his fucking _word_ for it because why, huh? He’s a _fucking kaiju_! You don’t think he’d have a fucking motivation to lie? Don’t you think it’s fucking suspicious that he just, _bamf_! Showed up here, right when everyone’s freaking out over this double event, and just _happens_ to magically have the answers to everything? That’s not suspicious to you _at all_? Come the fuck _on_ man!”

“I—” And Hermann . . . has no answer to that. What’s he supposed to say? _I like him, he’s brilliant and charming and we sang together and it was fun and, Lord, he_ knows _me. He knows me better than anyone ever has and yet, somehow, he seems to still like what he sees._

Instead, what comes out is:

“The Marshal believes him.”

Newton screams, slams his hands down on his workstation hard enough to rattle the glassware. “Fuck you, man! What the fuck is it some kind of fucking _disease_ with you where I just _have_ to be wrong. No matter what. Newt is fucking wrong. One hundred precent all the time. Where you’ll take a fucking _alien_ —”

“He’s not an—”

“—a fucking _alien’s_ word over mine! We’ve known each other practically our whole fucking lives! Would it fucking kill you to give me the benefit of the fucking doubt just _one_ fucking time, about the _one_ fucking thing I actually fucking know more about than you!”

“Oh grow up!” Oh god. He can’t stop it. It’s started and he can’t stop it and what the wasps say is: “You are such a fucking _child_. A pathetic, jealous little child throwing a pathetic little tantrum just because you’ve found the one person in this entire miserable universe _better at being Newton fucking Geiszler than you are_.”

And after that, the silence is . . . painful. Physically painful. And Hermann wants to just take all those wasps and all that vitriol and just . . . eat it back up. Lick it off the floor if he has to, to make it all unsaid. Because even if it’s true (it’s definitely true), then what did screaming it at the top of his lungs across the lab accomplish? Other than putting that look on Newton’s face, pure misery and utter humiliation and Lord knows for all the man is a frustrating, aggravating _child_ . . .

For all that he is, he does not deserve that. From Hermann, of all people.

“Newton, I—”

“Shut up! Just . . . just shut the fuck up.” He even throws a piece of undifferentiated, rotting viscera for emphasis. But his voice is small and tremulous and the . . . blob lands on The Line, splatter on Newton’s side, and by the time Hermann can tear his gaze from it, Newton has slammed on his headphones and turned away, and won’t meet Hermann’s eye.

When K comes back, an hour or so later, the blob is still there. He stares at it and he stares at Hermann and Newton, neither of whom will meet his eyes, and Hermann knows, quite suddenly an keenly, that K knows _exactly_ what happened.

And so Hermann feels very small and very cruel, and Newton is sending himself deaf while pretending to work, and K just sighs and cleans up their mess.

* * *

So that was the first . . . hiccup.

The second comes after dinner, when Newton walks back in from wherever he’d been sulking (not the mess, and Hermann doubts he’s eaten properly all day), to find Doctor K disassembling something on the floor of the lab. Hermann has no idea what it is or where it came from—he’d come back from his own dinner to find the operation already in progress—only that Newton _shrieks_ when he sees it, grabs a nearby chair, and immediately starts using it to beat K over his broad, armored back.

“Newton!”

The chair shatters, and K barely even blinks. If anything, this sends Newton into an even greater rage, lunging at K and physically clawing at his neck and face. He’s screaming incoherently; “no you can’t” and “that’s mine” and “you can’t stop me” in between vicious expletives and less articulate sounds, and eventually K has had enough, and stands. And stands. And stands.

He is . . . actually rather tall, when standing straight on two legs. He normally moves hunched over, on four limbs, eye level barely above a human’s. It occurs to Hermann this may, in fact, be deliberate and not entirely natural. Standing, truly standing, K is easily three meters tall and very, very, _very_ obviously a kaiju. And maybe that’s what finally breaks through Newton’s rage. He cries out, in fear this time, and stumbles backwards, tripping over the half-disassembled junkheap, crashing inelegantly and painfully to his arse. And, yes, Hermann will admit the stab of fear that travels through _him_ , too—a shocky little jolt of white-hot adrenaline—when K reaches out with one of his huge claws.

And what he does, is pick Newton up. Just . . . bodily picks him up, as if he weighs nothing at all. Newton kicks out, in pure panic, and even manages to land a few to the side of K’s head. K huffs, irritated, but all he does is grab his notebook and pen off the floor, dumps the screaming, squirming Newton on the sofa, and holds him there while he _writes a note_.

Because that’s the only way he has to communicate with them. He can’t scream at them in haste or anger the way they do with each other. The only thing he can do, the only thing they’ll understand, is write. And as Hermann is thinking this, his heart does . . . a thing. And his brain thinks:

_Oh, no._

* * *

To Hermann’s utter, utter shock, whatever K tells Newton works. Sort of. They talk for over an hour. Newton is trying to keep his voice quiet but he’s not a man with a natural indoor register, so Hermann puts in headphones and blocks him out with some Skream. By the time Newton finally flees the lab, he’s clutching K’s notebook to his chest like a lover, but he seems, if not happy, then at least . . . calmer. K watches him go then, when the scrambling footsteps have faded completely, collapses backwards onto the floor—onto the junk pile, in fact, which does not withstand the onslaught—runs his big hands down his face, and _groans_. It is the most utterly exhausted sound Hermann has ever heard.

He takes out his headphones, grabs a notebook and pen, and goes to stand next to the prone kaiju. The armor on K’s back means he can’t quite lie flat, is tilted slightly to one side, and the shoulders of his smaller arms don’t rotate out completely to the side. It occurs to Hermann how unnatural a position it looks on him. Human, almost.

“Are you all right?” Hermann asks, and gets a thumbs up that, after a moment, tilts down to around forty degrees or so.

Hermann laughs, mostly because he knows that post-Newton feeling. “Do you need me to get you anything?” Hermann’s never seen K eat, or sleep—isn’t sure if kaiju even do—but feels he should offer all the same.

K shakes his head and, with a grunt, rolls to the side and then upright. When he meets Hermann’s eyes, he rolls his own, sighing dramatically out of one side of his mouth.

“All the same,” Hermann says, suppressing a smile, “thank you. For being . . . kind to him. Will he be all right, do you think?”

A complicated series of signs, so Hermann hands over the notebook. When it comes back, it says:

He’ll get over it

Probably

I hope

But, uh, if you see him building anything like this shit again? Smash it yeah?

“What . . . was this?” Hermann says. Most of the detritus is wires and circuit boards, but in the middle of the mess he sees a cap covered in electrodes, and gets a sinking feeling.

I probably shouldn’t tell you

A terrible idea, crack cocaine for the brain

It would totally have worked, too, and would’ve saved all your dumb asses and it would’ve fucked him up in a way that would’ve been worse than if he’d died

“Oh, Lord no.” A way they don’t need, is the implication, because K is here, and suddenly Hermann understands. “This . . . your Newton. Whatever this was”—and dear Lord please let his suspicion be wrong—“he did this in your universe. It has something to do with closing the Breach, doesn’t it?” The timing is just . . . too neat, otherwise. And, yes. Newton has talked about this. Not often, and rarely sober, largely due to the . . . aggressive reactions. Hermann should’ve known he wouldn’t give up on it.

And maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer, but he has to ask.

“Your Newton . . . is he . . .?”

K blinks at him, then barks his strange laugh. His next note reads:

Oh shit man nah its not like that

Geiszler’s one lucky sunovabitch

In a way that I’m kinda hoping won’t have to happen for you guys, so . . .

Plus he’s had you to straight-shit fucking save his dumb ass like 3? Shit I think we’re up to 3 times now

So he’s doing okay

Bit messed up at the moment, but hopefully it’ll sort itself out soon

Hermann exhales at the words. Foolish, maybe, to feel so much for a man he’s never met. And yet . . .

“Thank you,” he says, heartfelt. “I just . . . thank you.” Almost without thinking about it, he puts a hand lightly on K’s arm, scales smooth and warm beneath his fingers.

* * *

Hermann’s problem (well, one of them, certainly the most relevant one to hand) has always been this: while he appreciates a good, hard dicking as much as the next man, Hermann falls _in_ _love_ with people. And exceedingly rarely, at that.

It’d almost worked, with Vanessa. Almost managed to marry up Hermann’s heart and his prick. But, in the end, Hermann had done the only thing he could ever have done, with monsters spewing from the sea, and had joined the Academy. And whatever he’d had with Vanessa, with the woman he’d once been sure he was to marry . . . it hadn’t been enough. For either of them.

Vanessa had been beautiful, but Hermann had noticed her whip-crack wit, first, and her kindness. Had fallen in love with the way she spoke so passionately about the things she believed in, how stubborn she could be, how determined. How she challenged him, pushed him to do better and _be_ better, always. How she seemed to know, exactly, who she was and what she wanted from her life.

Hermann, after all, had a Type. Brilliant, funny, opinionated, stubborn, confident, _frustrating_. The package those traits came in had always been rather far down the list; tall and stunning and dark, short and loud and obnoxious. Or, as it turned out, not even human at all.

Sometime in the wee hours, Herman’s bolts awake from a dream of enormous claws and hot scale, prick harder than it’s been in a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh everything must change, everything __  
> _It's not Saturday night, Sunday morning _  
> _There was so much more I[meant to say to you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FfNYOXFraI).  
> ____


	3. 6 January, 2025

6 January is a whirlwind. They’re less than forty-eight hours from the double event—predicted, confirmed—and the Marshal had made the decision to launch what he’s calling Operation Uprising (apparently the previous name, Pitfall, also used in Doctor K’s universe for their Breach-closure Hail Mary, had been nixed after an extremely confusing planning meeting in which no one was sure which event anyone had been talking about).

The plan is deceptively simple yet agonizingly precise; they have a nuclear warhead and a small window in which to send it through the Breach on the back of a dying kaiju. (Newton had, predictably, stormed around for a good hour shouting variations on “ugh _of course_ it’s _so obvious_ guh!” upon learning this, admittedly frustratingly banal, final piece of the decade-long puzzle.) If things go as per K’s experiences, this will functionally destroy the Challenger Deep Breach, and they will have maybe a year’s grace to brace for whatever the Anteverse throws at them next.

K has been exceptionally tight . . . well, perhaps not _lipped_ but certainly tight-jawed about what this next threat may be, exactly, saying he “didn’t want to jinx it.” Nonetheless, the Marshal is holding in trust everything they will allegedly need, should the Anteverse use the same tactics a second time. Because, yes, that’s the other unknown factor; is their Anteverse the same Anteverse as the one from K’s universe? Hermann has no good answer to this, no matter the number of times or the volume at which he’s asked about it. The idea that it is, that the Anteverse is one singular place with the ability to prey on multiple copies of a largely identical universe, is both terrifying and terrifyingly plausible. And if _that’s_ the case, then perhaps K’s presence here in the first place has changed their timeline even more than he intended. They’re trying to prepare for that, too.

(Hermann has caught K, on multiple occasions, staring at his hands and he turns them back and forth. Checking that they truly are in some parallel universe, that he still exists, that he isn’t, in his own words, “Marty McFlying himself” out of the timeline. The fact that he continues to help them, despite this obvious fear, does absolutely nothing to dampen Hermann’s budding little . . . issue.)

By the evening, the now-three-member K-Science unit is caught in that strange place of having nothing immediate to do during an ostensible emergency. Hermann supervises some of the last-minute Jaeger refitting out of sheer restlessness. He suspect he doesn’t achieve very much, but Tendo Choi assures him his presence—stern and dour though it may be—reassures the j-techs in some way Hermann will never fathom. (Mr. Choi’s insistence that, “In times of crisis, sometimes people just need a daddy,” does not, in any way, bear any kind of thinking about.)

Eventually, the cold gets to him, and he retreats stiffly back to the lab, to walk in on the ear-shattering wailing of Pacific Death Party overlaid with the bone-shaking outrage of:

“Now _way_ you did not! You were not on PDP’s album! You were not going to be in their _videoclip_! Fuck off! Hermann, tell this asshole to stop talking shit!”

K is sitting on his tail on the ground, leaning into a corner, as he does, laptop on his knees. Newton is standing over him, waving his own laptop in a tremendously precarious way. Despite the shrieking, the argument is good-natured, and Hermann sighs in relief. Then a second time, when K reaches up, and turns the music down to an almost-tolerable volume.

“Newton, I have no opinion on nor way of proving the Doctor’s claims one way or the other.”

As he says it, Newton’s laptop dings and, when the man reads the message, his voice, if anything, goes up another octave. “Fuck off no way! _Hermann_ is not on an album! You’re so full of fucking shit!”

And Hermann says:

“Ah, well. Actually . . .” He tries very hard not to blush, or feel as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “I, ah. Assume you mean _Raskit_?” Which earns him a large thumbs up.

Newton, meanwhile, is furiously typing, followed by more shrieking, followed by chasing Hermann around the lab demanding, “Dude! Dude what the fuck!? Why the fuck did you never tell me!! That is _so cool_!! How are you secretly cool?!?” at increasingly escalating volumes until, thankfully, Doctor K changes the music, and the opening beats of “Space” drown him out, at least for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I was my own man, can ya'll say that?_  
>  _I was my own man,[yeah I was the shit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2pkZ59SWxw)._


	4. 7 January, 2025

Hermann doesn’t get much sleep that night though, he suspects, neither does anyone else. At 0443, 7 January, he gives up, dresses, downs two Panadeine, spends a good three minutes hunched over the tiny metal sink in his bathroom, gasping in exhaustion and agony and panic, looks up, puts on his game face—thinner and tighter with every passing day—and heads into the lab.

Doctor K is already there, because Hermann isn’t sure K ever actually leaves unless directly summoned by the Marshal, and they nod to each other in silent greeting.

By the time Hermann’s logged on, the message is already waiting for him:

cant sleep?

For once, perhaps in deference to the quiet of the hour, Hermann types back.

GOTTLIEB, Hermann (Dr.): How could anyone?

K (Dr.): yea figure theres a bunch of that going around

K (Dr.): last time i was here i was basically going out of my brain

K (Dr.): then literally going out of my brain

K (Dr.): im lucky herms didn’t just give up and fuckinig kill me

K (Dr.): he definitely wanted to

K (Dr.): him and everyone else, for that matter

GOTTLIEB, Hermann (Dr.): I can’t believe you picked up Geiszler’s awful nickname for me. I honestly thought better of you, Doctor.

K (Dr.): lol

K (Dr.): you-prime hates it too

K (Dr.): but its been like ~20 years he mostly puts up with it

K (Dr.): not in front of anyone else, tho; last time i did that i came in the next day and hed put fucking chalk dust all over my office

GOTTLIEB, Hermann (Dr.): Serves you bloody right.

K (Dr.): i knew youd take his side

K (Dr.): so hurt rn i thought we were friends man ;_;

K (Dr.): so much betrayal

K (Dr.): (serves HIM right tho i just worked out of HIS office for like a week. suck it, gottlieb!)

And Hermann, so help him, can’t help his smile. He knows how everyone sees him; dour, uptight, prissy, proud, vicious, thin-skinned. And it’s true, he is all of those things, every one. But not because he wants to be; he just doesn’t know to be anything else. Except . . . sometimes. With the right person, someone to get him out of his head, out of his rut. To push him, just enough to bend, not to break. Sometimes he can be . . . someone else. Still himself, but . . . a better him. More Hermann Gottlieb than Hermann Gottlieb.

(Newton, on their better days. When they’re not both half out of their minds in anxiety and pain, war clock running down, angry at themselves and the world and the universe and with no-one to take it out on but each other.)

GOTTLIEB, Hermann (Dr.): Well. Given the current lull, I’ve been looking through some of what you could remember of the device that brought you here. I’ve some potential theories for getting you home, if you’ve time to discuss them.

His only response is the immediate scrabble of claws against concrete, K lurching upright in his eagerness. Hermann tries not to feel the little jolt in his heart at the thought their time might soon be ending.

* * *

So they work, and K is very close, and very warm, and smells so strange-good-alien-familar, and he challenges Hermann as readily as he praises Hermann’s brilliance and, Lord help him, but the War has been so long, and so lonely, and Hermann can’t remember smiling this much— _laughing_ this much—in years and the muscle in K’s arm is so firm beneath Hermann’s fingers and then, sometime just after nine (and, Lord, have they been at this that long?), Hermann looks up to see the message:

why dr gottlieb are you flirting with me? I don’t think this behavior is appropriate for the lab, sir. what would the marshall think~ (〃OωO〃)ゞ

And Hermann’s whole body just goes cold.

_Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid—_

He lurches out of his chair, stiff and awkward, stammers something unintelligible. Catches half of K’s startled expression— _stupid stupid to think_ —and takes a half-step lurch towards the door when an enormous claw comes up to block his way. He’s in such a state he almost hits it with his cane, thankfully does not, and his hesitation is enough for smaller hands to grab him and guide him back down.

K is typing, because that’s the only thing K can do, but Hermann can’t seem to open his eyes to see it. He stammers out half an, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this has been inexcusably inappropriate of me—” when a short, blunt claw jabs him in the side. Hard.

The jolt of pain is enough to startle his eyes open, to meet K’s. K, who’s scowling and gesturing at Hermann’s monitor, and the words:

oh holy shit

you ARE

oh fuck okay no cmon don’t

dont u fucking run off on me when i can’t yell at you!

fuck you man get back here and fucking LISTEN

Hermann’s heart is pounding and he can’t seem to stop rubbing his palms against his thighs, is terribly paranoid he’s leaving grotesque sweat-stains in their wake and can’t bring himself to look. And so he falls back on the only thing he knows, and sniffs, and lifts his chin, and snaps, “Fine. Say what you have to say.”

THANK you

okay so like . . . wow

will not lie i was 100% not expecting that but maybe i shouldve been idk

“Doctor. I do not have time for—” Another sharp poke, his words cut off by an indigent yelp.

shut UP

GOD your a pain

jesus okay so, firstly, im flattered dude seriously

your amazing dont ever let anyone ever tell you otherwise

but also, this is a totally its-not-you-its-me sitch

except actually wow irony

it actually IS you, but not how youre thinking

cuz i already have a hermann

a boyfriend hermann

as in, the hermann in my universe is my boyfriend

And Hermann says:

“ . . . Oh.”

And has . . . absolutely no idea how to feel about that, actually. Relief? Jealousy? Hysterical laughter?

(he hates being called a boyfriend tho incidentally)

“Erm,” says Hermann who has, in fact, always hated that term. “Yes, I expect he does.” It’s so _juvenile_.

and dont get me wrong

if he was here wed totally be down for some sweet-as 2-herms-1-k action

“Please do not call it that,” Hermann mutters, and tries not to flush so scarlet he shows up on a Breach reading.

that would be so fukking hot dude i cant even

but

sadly for all of us, he is not

and i just . . . cant, yknow?

“Erm, yes. I would expect not.” Hermann is no stranger to romantic rejection and this is, hands down, the most baffling situation he’s ever encountered. Getting cockblocked by _himself_ , because apparently his otherwise-DTF kinky alien boyfriend is too devoted. To him. In another universe.

It makes a brutal kind of sense, he supposes. How K seems to know him so well, knows exactly what to do with him. Is so . . . gentle. Caring. Indulgent of Hermann’s moods. And of course, _of course_ the first individual Hermann’s felt something like this for in years would turn out to be _his own lover_. Of course. Of course he beat himself to it. Why not. Welcome to the life of Hermann sodding Gottlieb.

Lord help him the Academy did not prepare him for this.

sorry dude

like . . . yeah just breathe tho

your kinda overheating and i don’t wanna have to take you to medical

theyll probably think i like tried too eat you or something

(and not in the sexy way)

(sorry too soon)

“Please shut up now,” Hermann manages. God, how does such a bizarre interaction feel so _familiar_? Is he getting some kind of . . . cross-universe echo? No. No, that’s ridiculous.

sorry

tho guess this is a kinda shitty way to figure out that like after a decade of accusing your lab partner of being a ~kaiiju grrrrrrrrroupie~ it is in fact YOU who is the one who wants to deep dick a kaiju

“Oh Lord.” He could just . . . bury his face in his hands. And never come out ever again. That would be fine.

speaking of TOTALLY SUBTLE SEGWAY

“That’s not the right spelling . . .”

but cmon man ive seen the way you stare at his cute bubbly little ass

u can’t tell me u don’t wanna hit that

could power a jaeger with all the fucking ust in here

And Hermann, so help him, figures this day can’t even get more humiliating. So he says: “His hands, actually. I . . . They seem very . . . pleasing.” For all Newton is an awkward, flailing disaster, his hands are . . . deft. Sure. Solid and strong and, so help him, Hermann even loves the ridiculous rings and bracelets and totally inappropriate black nail polish. The man spends his days elbow deep in _solvents_ , for Heaven’s sake. Not to mention is over the age of twenty. And yet, like clockwork, every few months he’ll come in with freshly-lacquered, midnight black nails. It’s ridiculous. Beautifully, endearingly ridiculous.

(And, oh, Hermann definitely has A Type. Because, yes. K’s hands are also large, and strong, and black-clawed and, yes, he even wears a bizarre assortment of obviously custom-made rings and bracelets. Hermann wonders where on Earth, literally, he gets them from.)

hah!

i knew it

see, you don’t even need me to be your rebound nkaiju

Hermann sighs. “It’s not like that,” he says. “ _He’s_ not like that.”

yeah u got some evidence for that theory dr big brain science man?

he still likes dick here right? this isn’t like bizarro straight newtiverse?

“No, but regardless. This is not worth discussing. And I can hardly see how you can claim mystical foresight on _this_ issue when you have admitted, yourself, that your version of me is in a relationship with you, not Doctor Geiszler.” He sniffs, pulling himself upright. _Hah!_

oh wow yeah totally irrefutable peer review there dude

cant even think of like a million ways right now, off the top of my head, why its totally bullshit

“God, you’re as infuriating as he is!”

K barks laughter, desk illuminated like a lightning flash by the brilliant neon blue of his mouth.

yea yea so they tell me

srsly tho i guess u do u or w/e

u wanna keep screaming at each other rather than having mindblowing sex against your dumb blackboards thats your problem

“I—” says Hermann, blush returning in full force. Because, yes. Yes that is indeed something he has spent a non-zero quantity of time fantasizing about.

just yanno

when you do finally figure it out

imagine me there saying “i told u so”

* * *

By the time Newton himself gets in, the conversation has long since moved on. Still, he attracts such piercing stares he stops, confused, and asks whether he’s grown a tail.

* * *

Later.

“Okay wow so, like, I was looking _everywhere_ for you, crawling all over the damn ‘Dome, and finally on my like fourth lap of the lab Kaijute takes like fucking pity on me or some shit and tells me you’ll be up on the roof getting totally baked. And I’m like, ‘Fuck off. Hermann is not on the roof getting baked, you’re full of shit’ and yet, hah! Here you are. On the roof. Getting totally fucking baked. What the actual fuck, dude?”

Hermann just sighs. “Hello, Newton.” It’s late, it’s cold, Hermann’s in utter agony and his heart is strangely broken and yet comforted, all at once, and tomorrow they may just very well win this damn War, at least for a little while, and, sod it all. Hermann is, indeed, getting extremely quote-unquote “baked.” Because why the fuck not?

Newton stomps over, flopping himself down far-too-close next to Hermann on the little ledge. It’s the side of some miscellaneous utility room. Hermann comes here because no one else does, and because it’s out of the wind, mostly, and because he can stretch out his leg on the parapet and because he can see the lights of the city through the haze and, sometimes, if he’s extremely lucky, maybe even a star. Or the ISS, at least.

“Anyway,” Newton announces, far too loudly for his proximity to Hermann’s ear, “now I owe you fifty bucks. So . . .” He makes a big show of pulling out his wallet—and, Lord, but the shameless way he arches his hips up to get to it does things—and pulling out a note and waving it at Hermann.

“Do I want to know how, in this scenario, you losing a bet results in _my_ windfall?” Nonetheless, he takes the money. Fifty dollars is fifty dollars, after all.

“Uh, because what the fuck is a kaiju from another dimension with no pockets who’s basically on house arrest in our lab going to do with fifty bucks, man?”

 _Oh,_ thinks Hermann. House arrest. K has never mentioned as much but, yes. Hermann supposes it makes sense; the rest of the ‘Dome is hardly fond of the man’s presence. Out of sight out of mind and all that, just like the rest of the freaks and the monsters of K-Science.

“Fuck it’s been a weird couple of days.”

“Indeed.”

“Even for, like, our standards, man. Like, when the ocean started belching out monsters, I was like, ‘Fuck, that’s fucked up. But at least it can’t get _more_ fucked up!’ But then we started using fucking psychic fucking helmets—”

“The Pons is not—”

“—to pilot giant fucking robots to beat up the giant fucking monsters, and it was like, ‘Okay _now_ this is the weirdest fucking timeline.’ But no! Ha ha! The universe was just lining the next one the fuck up. _Pamp_!” He mimes shooting pool.

“Your form is terrible.”

“All right, Ronnie O'Sullivan. You can pool shark me all you want when we’re unemployed in circa forty-eight hours’ time.”

“O’Sullivan played snooker,” Hermann says, taking another drag on his blunt. Probably the last he’ll be able to get for a while; pot is still rather illegal in Hong Kong, and his former dealer was fired in the last round of downsizing. “If anything, I suspect our services will be even more in-demand after tomorrow.”

“Assuming your new boyfriend’s not totally still fucking with us all.”

Hermann sighs, tries not to feel the hollow, lonely ache in his heart. And perhaps he is, in fact, a little more far gone than he thought. Because what comes out of his mouth is not, in fact, the scathing _I thought we’d gotten over this_ he’d intended but instead the rather more humiliating: “He’s not my boyfriend.” Which, hah. Irony. Also: Bollocks.

Newton, sensing blood, dives in. “I dunno man, looked like you’ve been getting pretty buddy buddy. Pretty fucking rich coming from the asshole who’s spent the last decade calling _me_ the fucking kaiju groupie.”

 _Funny,_ Hermann thinks. _He said almost exactly the same thing._

And also: _Sod it. Nothing will be the same after tomorrow anyway, might as well get in a laugh._

And so he says:

“He turned me down, actually.”

Newton actually chokes on his tongue, which Hermann is just high enough to find both tremendously satisfying and entirely worth it.

“W— The _fuck_?”

“Mm. Apparently he’s already romantically involved. With his universe’s version of me.”

“Not that part! I knew that part! I mean the—”

“You did not!” Hermann snaps his head around, glaring. Strangely, for all that he’s huddled obnoxiously close, Newton drops his own eyes, embarrassed.

“Well, I mean . . .” He’s fidgeting with his ring, boots swinging and kicking against the side of the building. “Okay, fine. But, like . . . I totally _guessed_ there was something. The way he— he talks about him. And with you, and I—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “Whatever. I was totally right. Score one Newt.” And he’s back. Lord save Hermann from the full-tilt Geiszler Mood Swing Express. Lord save the fact he loves every ridiculous minute of it.

“Anyway,” Newton says. “Not important. More important: _you_ , Doctor McKaiju Hater, put the fucking moves on a kaiju? Also, you _must_ be high if you’re admitting it.”

Hermann just takes another drag, and blows the smoke straight into Newton’s stupid, smug, beautiful face.

This results in outraged coughing, and something of a shoving match, and a large quantity of not particularly imaginative vulgarities.

“Fuck you, you’re such an asshole!” But he’s laughing, and so warm against Hermann’s side. Less trying to push Hermann off the ledge and more trying to push himself into Hermann’s parka which, well. It is rather cold, and _of course_ Newton’s here in nothing but his shirtsleeves.

“Just thought it polite to share.”

“Well then share properly, dipass!” And those beautiful, ridiculous hands are grabbing for Hermann’s.

He relinquishes the blunt because, well. Why not? And also, because of the retching and coughing Newton is reduced to after attempting to inhale. What a beautiful disaster.

“God, this shit is so fucking gross. It stinks. _You_ stink. Like a fucking college dorm. This stank-ass sweaty parka and fucking stale fucking cigarettes and pot.”

Hermann retrieves the sad remains of the last of his cannabis, giving in to the temptation to linger against Newton’s too-cold fingers as he does so. “Excuse you I am not taking _any_ advice on personal hygiene from a man who spends his life reeking of rotting alien corpses.”

“Oh _now_ you hate the smell of kaiju but it’s _totally_ fine when you’re trying to get to the fucking bone zone with one.”

“A _living_ one. You’ll note I also don’t find the smell of dismembered, decomposing human remains sexually appealing.”

“Gross. You’re so fucking gross when you’re high. Even your stupid fucking accent changes. What the actual fuck? Where has Gross Ex-Pat Stoner Hermann been hiding all these years?”

“On this roof, quite obviously.”

Newton shakes with laughter, close and warm and happy. And it’s . . . God. When it’s good, it’s so good.

“Seriously, though: the fucking kaiju? _Why_?” He sounds more stunned than anything contemptuous.

Hermann sighs. Why indeed.

“I suppose you spent less time with him.” Not to mention most of their interactions had been . . . fraught. “But he’s rather brilliant, and funny, and not at all afraid to tell me to sod off when I need it.”

“ . . . Oh.”

“Frustrating, definitely.”

“You . . . like that in a man, huh?”

“For my sins.” Another sigh. “He made me tea exactly the way I like it. Knew exactly what to do when I . . . fell. And he played my favorite song for me on your godawful guitar.”

“Jesus. Fucking dude’s got game, man.”

“Yes, utterly shocking that he would be able to accidentally seduce his lover’s alternate universe duplicate.”

A pause, then, almost too soft to hear: “You sure it was an ‘accident’?”

Hermann looks at him, though Newton still won’t look back. Is sitting with his boots up on the parapet, scowling at the horizon like it’s personally offended him which, alright, not an _entirely_ unusual sentiment, but . . .

“What else would it have been? And he did seem, ah. Legitimately shocked. That I would be . . . receptive.”

“I’ll fucking bet . . .” Muttered again.

Hermann is missing something. Hermann is a scientist. He knows what it is to look at a puzzle and not see what should be there. “ . . . Newton?”

“Jesus you are _never_ going to call me ‘Newt’, are you? Like . . . we could, like, fucking Drift, and close the Breach, and save the world, and get married, and cure cancer, and have like thirty children and live to like a hundred an fifty and be like fucking staring at each other on our deathbeds and the last fucking word you’ll ever say to me is fucking, ‘Newton.’” Imitating Hermann’s voice as he says it, because of course.

“That is correct,” Hermann says, because it definitely is. “Also, that is quite an elaborate roadmap you have for us. Though I confess I’m not entirely sure what my skills can contribute to your theoretical medical research.”

“Are you kidding, dude? You’re a fucking genius. You’ll figure something out.”

And, oh, but that shouldn’t feel as good to hear as it does. It really, really should not. “I don’t suppose you happen to have your godawful recorder on you, do you? I’d rather like a recording of that to play back to you the next time you decide my work is pointless and incorrect and a waste of resources.” A touch bitter, maybe. Just a touch.

And perhaps Newton is a little high, too, because he just sighs, and falls sideways onto Hermann’s shoulder and says: “Dude, I don’t know if you’re noticed this—I know it can be kinda subtle—but I am, in fact, a raging asshole with a messed-up head who frequently says dumb shit I don’t mean and feel bad about later.”

And: “ . . . oh.” Of course Hermann knows this. Of _course_ he does. He just never expected Newton to admit it.

They’re sitting very, very close. Newton is pressed right up against his good side, in fact, from shoulder to knee, their shoes lined up along the parapet, Newton’s boots tapping against the handrail. Hermann can smell the goop he puts in his hair, underneath the ever-present reek of anxiety and ammonia and caffeine.

And Hermann thinks: _I told you so._

And he says:

“He reminded me of you.”

Newton’s breath hitches, and his boots stop tapping. Hermann feels . . . strangely calm. However this goes, he supposes it can’t be worse than being kindly turned down for his own doppelgänger.

Eventually, Newton says:

“Hey, Herms? Can I kiss you?”

Obnoxious, frustrating. Of course.

“Please do,” he says.

When he turns his head, Newton is finally, _finally_ , looking at him. And his expression is . . . it’s _rapturous_. Hermann wants to touch him, so does; hand coming to cup the side of Newton’s cheek. It’s greasy and bristly and Newton obviously has spent far too little time on grooming but that’s all of them, really, and it’s utterly perfect, particularly as Newton’s eyes flutter closed and—

“Wait!”

Newton actually screams, at least for the half-second before Hermann slaps a hand across his mouth.

“Your bassist,” Hermann says. “From your awful band.”

Newton grabs his hand and pulls it from his mouth. “He’s not you,” he says, and pushes closer.

“Newton!” Hermann pushes him back. “Be serious. I will not . . . do anything with you if you are already . . . entangled.”

Newton groans, whole body rolling back with his eyes, even as his hands still grasp at Hermann’s parka. “God _of course_ you’re like this! Fuck!” But he’s laughing, and hasn’t moved away.

“Newton!”

“Jesus, dude. It’s fine. It wasn’t like that; we just hook up. We’re not planning our fucking wedding. He knows I’m too fucking gone on _you_ for anything else, you unromantic asshole!”

 _Oh_. But, also: “Well . . . how was I bloody supposed to knmmnfh.”

Because Newton has had enough, and is kissing him, and it’s exactly as angry and ridiculous and amazing as Hermann had always, secretly, hoped. Teeth and stale coffee and Newton’s hand, pushed under his parka and around his back, pulling him closer, the other still fisted in the collar, and Herman’s arms come up, too, wrapping around a solid body in a cheap, worn, too-cold shirt and, oh yes. Yes, definitely this.

And then Newton is pulling back, laughing and gasping and: “Oh fuck you taste like a fucking bong. It’s totally disgusting. Never stop.” And Hermann is rather high, and thus feeling rather indulgent, and so does not. Kissing and biting, hands under Newton’s shirt, running across smooth, warm, _beautiful_ skin, across tiny ridged scars and soft pebbled moles, and Newton is laughing and babbling between kisses, because of course he is, nonsense strings of “fuck” and “yes” and something about paperclips because Heaven forfend Newton’s ranting make any sort of sense whatsoever, in any place, at any time, especially here; trying to devour Hermann’s neck and crawl into his parka, all at once. And Hermann leans back, neck arched, and sighs a sigh of true contentment, closing his eyes at the feel of a drag of stubble against his jaw and teeth at his earlobe and it is then, of course, that the sky finally opens up, and the rain pours down.

* * *

They end up in Newton’s room, because that’s where Hermann wants to go. Newton hovers just beyond the doorway, colorful skin bleeding through the rain-damp fabric of his shirt.

“I, um. I know it’s kinda a—” is as far as he gets.

“Shut up,” says Hermann, kicking the door shut behind them, hand closing beneath’s Newton’s jaw, tilting it up for another ravenous kiss.

“Oh fuck oh fuck yeah fuck oh,” babbles through, and Newton is shaking, nerves or arousal or the cold or all three, so Hermann drops his cane with a clatter and starts wrenching open Newton’s stupid buttons, deft fingers and still-biting lips, more and more color blooming into view.

The shirt’s rolled-up cuffs get stuck when he tries peeling it off, and while Newton pinwheels around awkwardly trying to fix it, Hermann strips his own parka and sweatervest and tie and shirt, kicks off his shoes, and by the time he’s done that Newton’s shirt is gone and Hermann pushing him back down onto the unmade bed.

“Oh fuck. Jesus, fuck.” Newton takes his glasses off, at least, tossing them onto a side table, kicking off his own shoes. He looks absolutely debauched, shirtless and stunned, ridiculously hard in his jeans, blinking owlishly, chest a heaving, seething mass of claws and teeth. “Dude. Fuck.” He scrambles to right himself on the bed as Hermann stalks towards him, drops down to lean over for as long as his leg will stand it, enough to steal another vicious kiss, to palm a straining prick. Then falls beside Newton on the bed, surrounded by the smell of him; old sweat and cum and lonely nights and now the two of them, together, laid over it all.

“Holy shit I’ve died,” Newton is saying, as Hermann draws them together, kisses his throat, palms across the bulge in his jeans. “This is the greatest day of my life. F-fuck the Breach. Holy shit.”

“I’d rather fuck you,” Hermann says, mostly just to see what it will do. Make Newton shudder all over, eyes closed and groaning, as it turns out which. Yes. That’ll do.

“F-fuck, you’re gonna make me cum in my jeans. Fuck.”

“Cum wherever you want to, darling.”

“Holy shit holy f-fucking shit.” He’s laughing again, and it’s hard to feel sore about it, not when he obviously can’t help it. He’s too happy, feels too good, and it all has to go _somewhere_. “This . . . fuck. This is not how I ex-expected this to go!”

“When you fantasized about it?”

“Yes!”

“About bringing me back to your filthy lair?”

“Oh f-fuck.”

“ _Deflowering_ the blushing virgin?” He bites Newton’s ear, just for good measure, hand still working between his thighs. Newton is rutting shamelessly, breath coming in little gasps, hands working their way desperately beneath Hermann’s vest. He grips a little too hard at Hermann’s bad hip in his ardor, and Hermann hisses in pain. “Careful, darling.”

“Sorry sorry oh fuck sorry.”

“Here.” Hermann moves the offending hand to a safer area, Newton nodding in near-delirious compliance. “I hope I’m not disappointing you, not quite living up to your expectations.”

“Holy fuck forget them fuck f-fuck. H-how are you so _good_ at this?”

“Americans always do so underestimate the debauchery of a good, old fashioned English upper-class education. Also you are just a _tremendously_ easy shag.” Punctuated with a squeeze to Newton’s prick.

“F-fuck you, dude.”

“Of course. Later. Come for me first. Like this. I want to watch your face while you do.”

“Oh fuck fuck fuck—”

“Ssh, that’s it, darling. You’re so good for me. In here, where no-one else can see. I’ll take care of you.”

“Oh _fuck_!”

Newton’s back arches as he comes, face screwed up ridiculously, prick pulsing in time to his choked-off, sobbing grunts. Hermann holds him through it, kissing his neck, feeling the dampness spread beneath his palm. Until Newton’s body stills with the last few shudders, vocalizations turning once more to incredulous laughter.

“Holy fuck,” he says, once more, mostly to the ceiling. “Holy motherfucking fuck.”

“Your vocabulary is astounding, truly. Your family must be so proud of the return on their investment in your expensive American education.”

“F-fuck you,” Newton laughs. “Only you could make fucking sex about some bullshit trans-Atlantic pissing contest.”

Hermann smiles into his neck, pulling him close. Warm and safe. “There is only one true Cambridge,” he sniffs. “I’m so sorry you had to pretend otherwise.”

Newton laughs, and turns his head. Until their noses rub and they’re staring into each other’s eyes. Utterly ridiculous, both of them.

“You should do that more,” Newton says.

“Sex?”

“No! Well, yeah. With me. But also, smile I mean. Laugh. You don’t do enough of that.”

Hermann sighs, closes his eyes and burrows his face into the soft junction of Newton’s shoulder and neck, at the bloom of color and rage. “Hasn’t been terribly much to smile _about_ ,” he admits.

“Well, next time you feel that way, just remember the time you bossed me into cumming in my favorite jeans _and_ insulted my education while you were at it.”

“You’re right, of course; this has been something of a banner day. Also, you should take those off before you stick.”

“Why Doctor Gottlieb!” Newton says, in mock outrage. “I do not think that’s appropriate behavior for a professional environment! What would the Marshal think?” But he shucks them, and the pants beneath them, with an absolutely obscene amount of wriggling.

“Probably something along the lines of, ‘It’s about time.’”

“Oh my god did you just do a Stacker voice? You totally did a Stacker voice! Also yeah I dunno man getting yenta’d by, like, an alien from another universe is pretty hard to beat, even for our illustrious leader. Though I guess it’s kinda cool to know people on other planes of existence are, like. Rooting for my love life.”

“He’s not an alien,” Hermann mumbles.

“He tell you that, did he?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Any specifics?”

And Hermann who, up until roughly two seconds ago, had been quite content to fall asleep for a little, pleasantly horny and pleasantly buzzed, is suddenly blasted awake by the sheer radiating _power_ of Newton’s smugness. He props himself up, eyes narrowed, peering down at the faux-innocence (and delicious sex-flush) on the face beneath him. “What do you think you know?”

“Mmm nothing,” lies Newton.

“You are absolutely too smug to get away with lying. You have some ridiculous theory, no doubt?”

“Mmmmmaybe.” Hermann stares at him, and receives a laugh for his efforts. “Aw, c’mon don’t frog me.”

“‘Frog’ you?”

“Yeah. When you make that face. You look like a frog.”

“I’m regretting this liaison already.”

“A cute frog!” Newton darts up, pressing a kiss against his nose. “I’m a biologist, remember! And my name is Newt! I love amphibians! But seriously I’m not gonna break a dude’s confidence ‘cause he fucked up his dumb cover when he was trying to, like. Stop me from doing something even more fucking stupid.”

The machine the other day, whatever it had been. And . . . fair enough. So: “Oh, you’re actually admitting someone else was right for once?”

If anything, this makes Newton grin even harder. “Nope! Not even in the slightest!”

Hermann huffs. “You are _incredibly_ frustrating.”

“A ha! You love that! You told me! No takebacks.”

Hermann flops back down onto the narrow bed. Because, yes, he had said that, and it had been true, and he doesn’t regret it because it happened and the arrow of time only goes one way and it got him here. But Lord knows Newton is never going to let him forget it.

And now it’s Newton’s turn to roll onto his side, propped up on his elbow, looking down. Lord but he’s beautiful. Stupid beautiful. The platonic ideal of it, in every sense of the words.

“Aa-aa-anyway, totally subtle segue but, like, it occurs to me I’m, like, not exactly holding up my end of the evening, here.”

“Mm. Honestly I was quite content to simply make you cum then fall asleep but, since you’ve _have_ been rather obnoxiously smug, I do think you rather owe me.”

“Oh, yeah? And what fees does the Bank of Doctor Gottlieb change, then?”

“You may suck my prick.”

Another startled burst of laughter. “Holy shit yes. Do want.”

Hermann shifts a little, for access, then gestures down the length of his body. Half-hard and half-high but, well. It wouldn’t do to make things too easy. “Have at it, then.”

And Newton is laughing, and Hermann smirks, just a little, as those strong, deft hands reach for the fly of his trousers and:

“Holy fucking _shit_.”

Delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe it's the crazy that I'd miss_  
>  _It won't get[better than this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AahUu7am5No)._


	5. 8 January, 2025

They should’ve had time.

A lazy lie-in. Another round of awkward, new-lovers sex (or two). A half-hearted argument between two old friends. But, no. It is 8 January and a little after eight a.m. and Hermann is blasted awake by the sound of the K-Watch alarm.

“The fu-uu—”

Newton, of course, pinwheels straight out of bed.

Hermann sits up, carefully, more by physical necessity than any lack of urgency. He meets Newton’s (admittedly somewhat unfocused) gaze.

“It’s . . . it’s not time,” he says.

It is not time. The clock has not yet reached zero. The double event is not for hours yet.

They both gasp at the same time. Then scramble to dress.

* * *

LOCCENT is panicking. That’s the only word for it.

They stumble through the doors a little after 0814, reeking of sex, Hermann still in his clothes from yesterday. No one notices.

No one except Doctor K, who is already here, and who makes a rather odd sound when he sees them enter. Newton runs up to him, hand raised, and together they execute a bizarrely overcomplicated greeting, involving far too many jumps and high-fives. Hermann ignores them. Pleased in some abstract way, he supposes, they are now apparently getting along. But more concerned about the display screens. The ones showing a drone feed of the Hong Kong Miracle Mile.

There’s a Breach.

It’s hanging in the sky, crackling lightning. An impossible tear in reality, one-dimensional from every angle.

“It moved.” Tendo Choi, half-dressed and wild eyed. “It fucking _moved_.”

“What?” says Hermann. Dimly, he’s aware that every eye has turned towards him. Lord, there’s still a skeleton staff. Half of everyone is still in their pajamas. The Marshal hasn’t even arrived.

“It _moved_ ,” Choi repeats, as if this explains everything. “The Breach moved.”

“ _The_ Breach?”

“ _The_ Breach,” Choi repeats, again. “It was in Challenger Deep, now it’s . . . here.”

“No,” says Hermann.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

And as Choi is in the process of doing so, the Marshall bursts in, half-dressed. “The bloody hell is this about the Brea— oh my god.”

So then it’s on again, with maps and readings and—

“It moved,” Hermann says. “It was in Challenger Deep, now it’s here.”

“Evacuate the city. Now!” orders the Marshal, while Doctor K types an endless litany of: _im sorry im sorry i don’t know what this is im sorry im sorry please dont_

Eventually Hermann, Newton, and the Marshal get K away from the keyboard, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. His small hands keep moving and, even though Hermann can’t understand them, he knows what they’re saying.

“Hey!” Newton is saying. “Hey, dipass!” And he slaps K, right across the snout.

“Newton!”

But K stops, startled, and Newton launches himself into a hug against the kaiju’s chest. “It’s okay,” he’s saying. “It’s okay, dude. It’s okay.”

“Doctor!” snaps the Marshal. “Stay with me!”

K’s breathing is . . . erratic. But one of his small hands is gripping Newton’s shirt, and the Marshal’s voice brings his focus back into the room.

“We planned for this,” the Marshal reminds him. “We knew this might happen. It’s happened. Now we handle it, do you hear me? We need you, Doctor.”

And K gulps a breath. Once, twice. Then he nods.

“Okay,” says Newton, maybe to himself. “Okay. We do this. We motherfucking _handle_ it.”

“Okay,” says the Marshal, and stands back up. “Choi! Ready the Jaeger teams—” and he’s off.

Meanwhile, Hermann helps Newton help K to his feet, all of their eyes focused on the screens, to that impossible Breach, hanging impossibly close.

* * *

And then . . . nothing.

The city evacuates. The Rangers wait on standby. LOCCENT is ready. K-Science huddles in a corner, available for any and every obscure question. And still . . . nothing. The war clock counts down and . . . nothing.

Amazing, Hermann thinks, how quickly hours can pass, when alert for even the tiniest motion.

K is in the corner, Newton curled against his side beneath his arms (apparently, whatever disagreement they had is _very_ over). Hermann sits on a chair nearby, hand in Newton’s hand.

And the war clock counts down. And nothing happens.

* * *

And then, at T-minus twenty minutes, lighting cracks, and thunder roars, and the Breach opens.

The Breach opens, and Hermann’s breath catches in his throat.

He’s seen this, of course he has, once or twice. On feeds. But it’s evening, and they’ve relocated to the Shatterdome’s roof. Along with everyone else not immediately required at a physical station, or so it seems. So now, he’s seeing it in person.

“Oh fuck,” Newton says, and grips onto his arm. From his other side, he hears K inhale sharply, claws curling against the concrete as if expecting some kind of blow.

The Breach opens, and vomits a kaiju into the world.

It is . . . enormous, even at this distance. Half-hidden in the gloom, the mist and the rain, backlit by lightning. Birthed raw and furious, and it throws back its enormous crested head and _howls_ , the sound primal and wounded and so loud it shakes Hermann’s bones.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” says Newton, his legs failing. Hermann is not strong enough to catch him, and Newton crashes, awkward and painful, to the concrete.

And then K lunges forward, barking strangely, pushing through a crowd that scrambles in his wake. Right up to the parapet, facing the daikaiju.

Then he leans over the railing, maw opened in joy, and roars to greet it.

“Fuck fuck fuck no fuck fuck,” Newton is saying, scrambling to his feet, Hermann supporting him as best he can. Newton wails, a primal, sobbing denial, as the kaiju in the bay turns towards them, towards the Shatterdome, and starts heading their way.

And that’s when Hermann sees: there’s something behind it. Something that came through the Breach with it, obscured by its bulk, upright and bipedal and familiar and—

And suddenly Hermann’s world is moving. It takes him a moment to register why, to realize the screaming he can hear is Newton, the pressure he can feel around his waist and hips is where Doctor K has grabbed them, grabbed them both, and is running them at full-kaiju-tilt, back to LOCCENT.

“—lay that order, sir. He’s with us.”

K’s claws lose traction on the LOCCENT floor as they burst through the doors, and they skid, people shrieking and scrambling to get out of their way. Another few stomach-clenching lurches and Hermann finds himself deposited at his station, Newton dumped slightly less ceremoniously next to him. And K, leaning over them both, to type:

otouto! hes with us hes okay theyre here to help!

And the Marshal is saying: “ . . . Becket?”

And the comm says: “Yes sir, Marshal Pentecost sir. Gipsy Danger and—”

“—and Otouto,” adds a familiar voice. A familiar female voice. “Reporting for the double event, sensei.”

There’s a Jaeger. On the screens, standing in the bay next to the enormous kaiju. Hermann does not recognize it. It looks . . . it’s _beautiful_. Sleek and dangerous and, even from this distance, so obviously more advanced than their own unit of the same name.

“You . . . have a kaiju,” the Marshal says, almost hysterically. Almost. He looks back at K, who gives an overly earnest nod and a full four thumbs up. “Of course you have a kaiju,” the Marshal concludes. “Of course. Why not.”

There’s a gasp, female and full of . . . of grief. But hope, too. And in the bay, Gipsy Danger stumbles.

The Jaeger stumbles, and the kaiju, Otouto, lunges towards it. The whole of LOCCENT draws in a breath but . . . but all the kaiju does with its massive claws is catch Gipsy Danger, catch her, and help keep her upright.

Hermann has never seen anything like it.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” says Newton, echoing the room’s general mood.

“Mako!” the Marshal is shouting. “Becket! What—?”

“Sorry, sir,” comes Becket’s voice. “Just . . . just a rabbit.”

“Gomennasai, sensei.”

“Time?” asks Becket. “Doctor Gottlieb worked out the dilation window but it’s exactly that; a window.”

“How— how long until the event?” Mako finishes.

“Uh. Oh fuck.” Choi, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Uh, eight minutes thirty-six.”

“All right. Doc, you watching?”

K trills, bright and loud enough for the comms to catch.

“All right,” says Becket. “Good to hear from you, Doc. Your little bro here was howling at the Miracle Mile for a month after you got zapped.”

K startles at that, but before he can explain why ( _time dilation_ , Hermann thinks, _he’s been gone longer there than here_ ), Mako is continuing:

“We could not bring ElAurora. We will need someone to translate for Otouto, if things get complicated.”

“You gonna be okay, Doc?” Becket adds. “I know the last one hit you hard.”

More thumbs up, and a shove to Newton, who yells: “Uh . . . uh, yeah. I’m . . . getting thumbs up here?”

A pause, then: “Oh. The other Geiszler.”

“Hello, Newt,” says Mako. “I hope he has not been giving you too much trouble.”

Newton says something in reply, but Hermann can’t hear it over the sudden pounding in his head. _The other Geiszler._ Of course. How _stupid_ of him. _He reminds me of you,_ he’d told Newton, just last night. And Newton, damn him, had _known_.

“Hey, Herms? You’re kind of looking—”

“You _knew_!” Hermann hisses. “You _bloody knew_! I suppose you thought it was funny!” Lord, he can’t see properly. His vision whiting out around the edges, in pure shivering, daikaiju sized rage.

Newton’s eyes go extremely wide. “No!” he yelps. “I told you! It was an accident! He has my handwriting, dude. I couldn’t not notice!”

 _I didn’t,_ Hermann thinks, almost hysterically. _I didn’t notice. They must think me so_ stupid _. Playing their little games._

A pinging beep:

hey dude cmon don’t blame him

blame me if you have to blame someone

Hermann rounds on him. “Oh, _Doctor Geiszler_ , I intend to. You . . . you pathetic, manipulative, little—”

“Gentlemen!” The Marshal’s voice snaps them all back into the room. “Please save the episode of _Neighbours_ until after the world is saved, yes?”

“Uh, sorry Doc,” says Becket, sounding legitimately so.

“Four minutes,” comes the time call.

“Gipsy Danger, give us the short version.”

“Right,” says Becket. “Short version: We moved the Breach from our end.”

“So close to the city?” the Marshal is incredulous.

“Sorry, sir, it’s—”

“—where we built the Gate.”

“The _what?”_

“Doctor Gottlieb thinks he can intercept the Anteverse’s opening from his end. We’re expecting two Cat IVs but—”

“—we may have changed things by being here.”

“So you’re telling me everything we sent to the middle of the Pacific is pointless?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Pentecost does not quite sigh, though he obviously wants to. Usurped by your alternate universe self. Seems there’s a lot of that going around, lately. “I assume you have a different plan?”

“Yes sir, that’s—”

“—what the Gate is for. We will use it to close your Breach.”

K— no. _Doctor Geiszler_ ’s claws fly across his keyboard, and Hermann’s terminal dings. The only reason he deigns to check is because he is, in fact, a professional and, very rarely, so is Geiszler.

holy fuck hermann you crazy asshole you did it

Rarely. Not today. Hermann is well aware he is not the man being addressed in that poorly constructed excuse for a sentence.

“Holy shit,” says Newton and, Lord. They even talk the bloody same. He should have known. He should have. (He didn’t . . . did he?) “Your Herms can _control the Breach_?”

not when i left!

“Guess he was like super motivated by the lack of sweet, sweet rockstar D in his life.” And then they _high five each other_.

“Doctors Geiszler!” Hermann snaps. “That is inappropriate!”

Newton gets That Expression, the one he makes just before he’s about to say something awful ( _something he’ll regret,_ says the poor, battered beast of Hermann’s heart) but Geiszler beats him to it, slapping a hand across his mouth and typing:

sorry dude

(you are totally a baller and you totally kick the av’s ass with math tho)

“That wasn’t _me_ ,” Hermann hisses because, yes, they are still in the middle of LOCCENT and still preparing for war.

oh yea my bad its just you with like a decades more experience and a billion dollar budget and like a team of literally the best stem nerds in the world at your beckon call

my bad totes diff

“It’s ‘beck and call’ you imbecile.”

“Wow way to take a compliment.” Newton, mouth sadly freed. Then, to Geiszler: “Is your one like this, too?”

100%

just blow him later hell get over it

“Doctor Geiszler this is a work system! I will— I will report you to HR!”

“ _Gentlemen_!” The Marshal again. “ _I_ will separate you!”

“Incoming in five!” yells Choi. “Four, three, two. Go time!”

On the screens, the alternate Gipsy Danger and the kaiju, Otouto (obviously named by Geiszler, _obviously_ ), step back to face the Breach, each assuming fighting positions. Behind him, Hermann feels Geiszler do the same. ( _The last one hit you hard,_ Becket had said.) And it is . . . strange. To watch a kaiju and Jaeger prepare to fight, side-by-side.

Once more, the Breach flares, and roils, and belches two forms into the bay.

“Let’s do this!” comes the voice over the comm, as Otouto throws back its head and roars, so loud Hermann thinks he can feel it in the floor, despite the miles and the layers on concrete and steel that separate them.

Or maybe that’s Geiszler. He’s _growling_ , half-standing and almost feral, staring at— no, _through_ the monitors, out to where kaiju and Jaeger clash.

“Dude,” says Newton. “You okay?”

And then, of all things, Hermann’s console makes the jaunty trilling of an incoming video call.From . . . his own account.

No one else seems to be paying attention; the Geiszlers are occupied with each other and everyone else is watching or coordinating the fight. With a sinking feeling, already knowing what he’s going to see, Hermann answers the call.

“—ctor Gottlieb? D— u read?”

The connection is bad, audio glitching and video freezing. But it’s still undeniably his voice, his _face_. Older, certainly, but still _him_.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _It_ is _rather odd, isn’t it? Do I . . . really look like that?_

“Um,” he says. “Um, y-yes, Doctor. I’m here.”

“Excellent, yes. Ansible connectivity established.”

“You’re . . . transmitting through the Breach?”

“Something like—”

And then Newton is pushing himself past Hermann, peering at the screen. “Holy shit it’s Gottlieb Prime! Yo Her— _are those my tattoos_?!”

And, dear Lord. He’s _right_. Gottlieb is sitting at a terminal in what looks to be his equivalent of LOCCENT, wearing glasses Hermann’s never seen in a style he isn’t sure suits him. Gottlieb’s hair looks like it’s seen the inside of a professional salon in the last six months, too, and the collar of his shirt and pattern of his sweatervest seem both out-of-date and overly cutting-edge, all at once.

He’s obviously exhausted, running on pills and caffeine, tie gone, top button unbuttoned, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. And, yes. Unbelievably, Newton is correct; Gottlieb’s forearms are a riot of familiar, snarling color.

He sighs. “Hello, Doctor Geiszler. Please focus, we’ve already blacked out half Guangdong keeping this connection open.”

Newton scoffs. “Your boyfriend say _hi_ , by the way.” Lord but he’s a brat.

“Yes, we’ve already spoken,” Gottlieb says, one eyebrow arched _just so_ as he does. (And, dear Lord, does he _really_ look like that?)

“Wh— _How_?!”

“Focus!” snaps Hermann, sharing an eye roll with his counterpart.

“Doctor Geiszler please make yourself useful and fetch your execrable music player for Newton, yes?”

“What? Wh—?”

“Just _do_ it!” Hermann has no idea what his counterpart is doing but, well. If there’s someone’s side he should be taking, he feels it’s his own.

“Jesus fine okay bossy Gottlieb double team yikes.” But he’s going, darting out of LOCCENT as fast as his unlaced boots will take him.

“The Anteverse is very . . . insistent,” Gottlieb sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “It will help him focus.”

Hermann glances back at Geiszler, face still contorted into a terrifying snarl, claws flexing, digging grooves into the concrete floor. And one small trickle of Blue, running from a furiously blazing eye.

“Will . . . he be all right?” he asks Gottlieb. Lord knows he’s still livid but . . .

“He’s tougher than he looks,” comes the wry answer. Because, of course, this version of Geiszler hardly seems the barely patched-together disaster of his human self, scars and all. A pause, then: “Doctor? They are idiots. But they’re idiots in love. There are worse things to be.”

Funny, Hermann thinks. A battle for the future of the planet rages outside, and _this_ is the thing that trips his heart.

He swallows. “I, ah. Yes. Thank you. I will . . . keep that in mind.”

“Good man.” Nice to know people on other planes of reality are invested in his love life, indeed.

“Doc?” Becket’s voice, over the comm. “Doc, sorry to break the shit news but—”

“—we’ve only got one Icepick,” Mori finishes. “If . . . if you . . .”

“Your call, or it’s first in last out.” Then: “sorry, Doc. I know you want to save them all.”

Geiszler finally shifts, giving a mournful little huff, raising a big claw to rub at his bleeding eye. His focus does shift to the screen, then, to the two new kaiju. One is low slung, six-limbed and heavily armored. The other dual-tailed. Neither are as large or ferocious as the— as Otouto, but Hermann thinks they fight with a self-disregarding rage their larger sibling does not.

“Might be hard to get through the armor,” Becket offers, voice almost kind.

And then: “No. No, Newton; have them send one back through.” Gottlieb, furiously scanning through something just outside the camera’s view. “Yes. We have the Larsons and Lius deployed into this end, in case the bifurcation went wrong. Yes, of course. Miss Kaya is on standby, yes of course I know it’s— It’s her decision, Newton. You’ll know what she’ll say. She’s worse than _you_.” It’s like listening to one half of a phone call. Hermann would think him totally mad but for the way Geiszler is gesturing, familiar frenetic motions that mean the man is deeply involved in argument.

“Doc?”

“Doctor Gottlieb,” snaps, well, Doctor Gottlieb. “Please instruct Rangers Becket and Mori to direct one kaiju back though the Breach. I will intercept from this end.”

Hermann stutters through relaying this information, gets a “roger that” from the Rangers and a muttered “I wasn’t aware there was a new Marshal but please, continue” from Pentecost that has Hermann flushing as red as Otouto’s mouth.

And then:

“Here it is here it is!” Newton is back, BlueTooth speaker held aloft above his head like a prize belt. “One execrable music player! Uh . . . requests?” He puts it down on the console next to Hermann’s screen, flicking through his phone as he does.

“The most awful, obnoxiously loud trash you adore,” says Gottlieb.

“Aw yeah!” Newton cries. “Suck it, Dizzee, this time it’s Pacific Death Party gonna save the world!”

“Yes, of course, absolutely please do turn this into some kind of juvenile musical prick-measuring contest,” says Hermann. The comment elects a snort of laughter form Gottlieb, and Hermann allows himself one tiny smile in response.

“I could retire, after this.” The Marshal, words all-but drowned-out by the screeching throb of drums. “Go to . . . Ibiza, maybe. Lovely.”

The whole of LOCCENT jumps as the growling scream of “Extinction Rebellion” fills the room, staring incredulously at Newton’s distressing air-guitar thrashing, at the bellowing (and yet shockingly on-key) roar of Doctor Geiszler while, on the screen, Otouto’s brutal strikes fall into synch with the pounding backbeat.

“It’s not the genre per se so much as the emotions it elicits,” Gottlieb is saying. “The Anteverse apparently does not . . . understand music. We’re still unsure as to exactly why, but it helps ground the Hive.”

“There would be something,” Hermann mutters, almost without meaning to. “A key or a rhythm . . . so much of music is mathematics, at its core.”

“True, but it’s the subjective factor.” Gottlieb says. “Individual enjoyment. If you happen across a model that fits, please do call and share.”

“Mm,” says Hermann, absently, and wonders if he should look up the . . . what are they called? Tabs? From these Death Party gentlemen. Come to think of it, Newton may even be able to get him access to the band itself. There would have to be _something_. Something they could measure, could see on an EEG, perhaps. “Fascinating . . .”

And then:

“Hermann! Incoming!” And on the screens, Gipsy Danger swings the two-tailed kaiju around by its limbs, throwing it into Otouto, who headbutts it straight into the still-open Breach.

“Incoming!” Newton and Hermann yell.

“Got it!” Gottlieb, typing furious just off-screen. Then, not to them: “Standby! We have incoming!”

“Ready for the Icepick now, Doc?”

“Uh, he’s nodding. Lots of nodding,” Newton translates.

“Tell Otouto to hold her still,” says Mori.

“Upside-down, if he can managed it,” adds Becket.

Otouto can manage this, as it turns out. It takes some doing but eventually they get the armored kaiju onto its back, Otouto pinning it in the water as Gipsy Danger leaps in to straddle the creature’s tail. The she raises a fist, deploying an enormously long, wicked-looking spike, and drive it right into the soft flesh in the groove of the struggling kaiju’s hip.

Geiszler roars, but there’s something victorious about it, and the whole of LOCCENT both cringes from the racket and watches in rapt fascination as the pinned kaiju struggles once, the twice, then stills. Then starts again, but . . . different, somehow. Less violence, more panic.

“Let her up,” Gottlieb is saying. “Let her up!”

Hermann relays this for the comms, and Gipsy Danger and Otouto cautiously stand. The armored kaiju thrashes, _howling_ , until she’s released and then, with one leap, dives into the ocean. With a startled bark, Otouto follows her.

“Geiszler! What—?” the Marshal starts.

“She’s scared,” Newton blurts, looking to Geiszler for confirmation. “She’s just scared, right?”

“Yes,” says Gottlieb. “They’ll find her and bring her back, don’t worry about that.”

“I still have an open Breach here, gentlemen,” the Marshal reminds them.

“The Breach?” Hermann asks.

“I believe I’ve synchronized the temporal window,” Gottlieb says. His sound and video are crisp now, Hermann realizes, latency almost entirely eliminated. “I assume Mr. Choi is there? Have him countdown ten at my mark.”

“Mr. Choi,” Hermann barks. “Countdown of ten from my mark.”

“On it.”

“Aa-aa-and _start_!”

“Now, Mr. Choi!”

“Ten,” says Tendo. “Nine. Eight.”

“Tell Gipsy Danger to fire her AVP on zero.”

Hermann doesn’t question it, just relays the command, receiving acknowledgment from the Jaeger in question.

“We’re going to hit it from both sides,” Gottlieb says.

“You’ll never get past the Throat!”

“With kaiju-skin warheads?” Gottlieb is smirking a true mad science smirk. He’s even doing the steepled fingers. “Newton’s little harem have made _such_ progress on limb cloning. I merely thought I’d . . . redirect their efforts.”

“One!”

On the screen, Gipsy Danger fires something from her chest canon into the Breach. Surprisingly small, but . . .

“Probe deployed!”

“This end clear,” Gottlieb says, then looks up. “Doctor?”

“I—”

“All clear, Doc! We’ve hit the AV.”

“Yes, yes. They got it.”

“Then fire!”

“Fire! Fire!”

“Firing!”

And _now_ the missile fires, bursting out into the wake of the probe before it. Hermann watches the Breach swallow it, hungry and violent.

“Both payloads penetrating the Throat,” Gottlieb says. “Closing connection to prevent backscatter. Good work everyone. See you this time tomorrow.”

And then his connection winks out, and so does the Breach.

And . . . it’s over. More-or-less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Quarantine all of those secrets_
> 
> _In that black hole you call a brain[before it's too late](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=racmy7Y9P4M)._


	6. … and all tomorrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sun comes up on you and me_  
>  _And we fall out of bed and we work all day_  
>  _And we're thinking about the weekend_  
>  _We're thinking about new clothes_  
>  _We're thinking about touching_  
>  _But[everyone's watching](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g36PA8z50W8)._

The Breach is gone. It is not in the Deep, it is not on the Mile. It is, for all intents and purposes, gone. And so, for the first time in over a decade, the Shatterdome celebrates. Truly, madly celebrates.

Hermann goes to watch the interloping Gipsy Danger as she settles into a disused bay. Her versions of Mori and Becket emerge, grinning and victorious, yet older than the ones Hermann is used to. They greet their younger selves with hugs and back patting, and then the older Mori sees the Marshal, and breaks down, and Hermann decides it’s time for him to leave.

Their Jaeger is undeniably beautiful, a true marvel of world engineering, but it sends a small, strange pang through his heart, too. A trophy sportscar, sitting next to their own universe’s beloved, hand-crafted junkers. Beautiful, yes. But _loved_?

Is it wrong? To feel that they got out of this . . . too easily? He should feel grateful, he knows. Another universe—maybe more than one, maybe an unfathomably infinite chain of such—suffered dreadfully so theirs could be spared even a small fraction of that agony. Perhaps the next will be spared even more. Perhaps this is how this goes, always. Perhaps he’s merely gotten more of a peek behind the curtain, one small step on the road to true salvation.

The Shatterdome has been possessed by the spirt of the Bacchanalia. Hermann is offered booze and drugs around every corner (he accepts two glasses of champagne and a small quantity of pot, the former celebration and the latter medicinal) and no less than six people attempt to kiss him. None of them are what he wants.

What he wants, he cannot find. He would’ve expected Newton to be in the thick of this, noise and revelry. But Newton is not in LOCCENT and not in the mess and not on the roof and not fornicating anonymously in any of the halls Hermann passes.

It’s . . . strange. Drifting through the joy without feeling it himself. Ghostly.

Eventually, he ends up in the only place he ever truly felt alive.

“Oh. H-hey, um. Hermann.”

And, of course, the Geiszlers are here. Because where else would they be?

Newton is sitting on the sofa, looking far more miserable than anyone has a right to be, the hour after the world doesn’t end. Geiszler is sitting on the floor next to him, notebook in hand. Hermann supposes it must be nice, having a direct life advice line to your older self. Or possibly infuriating. Hard to tell.

“Doctor Geiszler,” he says as he approaches. “Newton.” He hands the latter a glass of champagne.

Newton leaps to his feet, nearly trips over in his haste, and eventually takes the cheap plastic champagne flute in too-sweaty hands.

“Hermann, I—”

“Shut up,” says Hermann, and kisses him. Because there are worse things to be than an idiot in love.

Newton gasps, small and desperate, and clings to Hermann with such fervor he’d splash his drink all over the floor, had Geiszler not been there to correct it.

Lord, Newton’s sweet. Quivering and eager, heart fluttering so fast it’s almost a hum beneath Hermann’s lips and tongue and teeth as he mouths, shamelessly, at Newton’s neck.

He assumes Doctor Geiszler does not mind the show.

Doctor Geiszler does not mind the show, which Hermann establishes when he comes up for air some time later. Geiszler is grinning toothily, in fact, and gives Hermann four thumbs up when their eyes meet.

“This is going to be terribly rude of me, but . . .” Hermann starts, and Geiszler’s eyes get very wide. He starts nodding eagerly and making shooing motions with his hands, and Hermann smilies at him. “Thank you,” he says. “And . . . thank you.” He learns forward, just enough to place a kiss on Geiszler’s smooth, pebbled, shagreen snout. “We’ll see you in the morning. Come on, Newton.” And he leads them from the lab.

As they pass the doors, Newton giggles and half-whispers, “Aw, dude. I was just about to get him to show me his junk!”

* * *

They end up back in Newton’s dorm, looking exactly as they left it.

“I’m starting to think you have a thing for all my gross mess,” Newton says, somewhat nervously, as Hermann closes the door behind them.

“Of course I do. How could you possibly think otherwise?”

“Oh, fuck, dude,” says Newton, as Hermann pushes his shirt from his shoulders. This time, they make sure the sleeves don’t catch.

They strip down, quieter this time, slower. Hermann is in no hurry. Why would he be? The war clock has stopped, the apocalypse has been cancelled. For once, they have tomorrow. They have _all_ tomorrows. Nestled in Newton’s too-narrow bed, on his worn Muji sheets beneath his cheap Muji duvet. Rutting lazily against each other through worn cotton, Hermann half-hard and busy tracing the line of every awful, beautiful tattoo with his fingers and teeth and tongue.

“This,” Newton gasps, “has been a really, really, _really_ weird week.” His fingers fist in Hermann’s hair, against the soft flesh of his waist. “How the fuck am I an actual fucking kaiju in, like, our next-door neighbor universe, man?”

“Mhm.” Newton babbles because he does. Hermann’s participation is not particularly required, so he simply continues as he was.

“Wo-wouldn’t even fucking tell me. Asshole. Just said it was a-a ‘lab accident’ and I ‘wouldn’t have to’— oh fuck yeah man, fuck. ‘Wouldn’t have to worry about it.’ Well . . . what if I _want_ to fucking worry about it? Maybe I _want_ to be a super cool kaijin with ra-rad kaiju powers, huh.”

Hermann actually does not think this is literally the case. Would put money on it, in fact, and win enormously against all the people with the fortune to know Newton less than he does. Even so, he feels himself . . . ambivalent-to-positive about the notion. His alternate universe counterpart certainly seemed content enough.

“Y-you know this means somewhere out there there’s a universe where it is, in fact, _you_ who is the one who is the kaiju.”

Hermann supposes this is a reasonable assumption, given the apparently ridiculous parameters of their multiverse. Again, he can muster no particularly strong feelings on it one way or the other. That Hermann is not him. He supposes he hopes that Hermann also has a Newton, and that they are as content as they possibly can be, in the way he wishes general good will onto all of God’s wayward creations. (Something he knows many people would be surprised to hear him say. But Hermann is no misanthrope. He doesn’t necessarily want to be _near_ other people, but he certainly doesn’t hate them. Why else would he have devoted his life as he has?)

“You’d be, like, totally a Karloff,” Newton is saying. “Definitely.” Hermann is down to his stomach and Newton is so hard the head of his prick is poking out of his underwear. Obviously ancient, once-black, with a tear at the waistband so large Hermann knows, just _knows_ , Newton has put his leg through it more than once while getting dressed. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Hermann pulls them off, right off, tossing them carelessly into the stacks of comics and print-outs and old clothes that litter the rest of the room. Better. Just the bright curling edges of Newton’s kaiju and the untamed thatch of his public hair and the thick, musky smell of his arousal. Hermann licks a stripe up that straining prick, and grins when he’s rewarded by a whimper and fingers pulling too-tight in his hair.

He shimmies back up the bed. Somewhat awkwardly, because all of Hermann’s movements are at least somewhat awkward, but Newton is busy rummaging through his disaster of a nightstand, filled with leaking bottles of lube and spilled-open packets of condoms.

“I just . . . I wanna hold you,” he mumbles into Hermann’s neck, body still twisted awkwardly, arm stretched out behind him. “We can just . . . y’know.”

“Yes, of course.” It’s so easy to indulge him, here if absolutely nowhere else.

“Yeah. Yeah cool. Awesome.”

He gets the lube, and squeezes a portion out onto his hand. Hermann shimmies out of his own pants (pretends he doesn’t get a finger caught in a small hole at the waistband as he does; Lord but it’s been a long war), then they’re rolling together again, Newton’s deft, sure, scalpel-calloused hand wrapping around their pricks, pressing them together, stroking them in time.

Hermann sighs, head thrown back, hands roaming across the broad expanse of a warm back. His leg twinges and he throws it across Newton’s soft hips, opening his thighs, thrusting in small, jerky motions as Newton’s second hand comes up to softly roll his balls and stroke behind them.

“Is— is this okay?”

“Exquisite,” says Hermann, shuddering from the slow build and the giddy feeling that he’s finally, _finally_ , shaking lose from the weight of the last decade. The Breach is gone. They lost no one in its closing. They have an _entire other universe_ to call on for help, the next time they need it.

And he has Newton.

“Oh, God,” he gasps, the enormity of it finally hitting him. “Oh God.” He pulls Newton to him, almost painfully, get a startled yelp and a soft kiss against his temple, earlobe, lips.

“It’s okay, man,” Newton says. “I gotcha.”

Hermann laughs, giddy with pleasure and relief, and: “Yo-your pillow talk is— is— Oh. _God_.” As Newton runs a slick thumb under the head of his prick.

“What’s that, honey?”

Lord, but he’s a brat. Hermann buries his laugh in Newton’s shoulder, biting down, hips bucking. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants to come. To come, then sleep, then wake up with Newton in his arms and do this again, and again, and again and—

Bliss. White-hot and bone-deep, shuddering and gasping. Newton holds him through it, strokes him, rolls them so he’s half on top. When he comes, it’s slick and hot against Hermann’s too-hollow stomach, and it’s so _good_ , and they’re both laughing, holding each other like there’s nothing else in this whole blended universe, drifting in release.

* * *

After that, Newton cleans them up, retrieves their drinks, and they toast victory with warm, flat champagne and cracked plastic glasses.

* * *

“Holy crap. Holy crap Hermann, Hermann look. Look! It’s a kaiju Hermann! I’m touching a kaiju! I’m touching _two_ kaiju!”

Another tomorrow. They’re on a boat, in the bay, once more waiting for a Breach to open. Hopefully, this time, one whose only purpose is to help return their strange, patient visitors.

Hermann exchanges a look with Geiszler, who rolls his eyes and shrugs as if to say _what am I, then?_

But Newton is right; he has not one but two daikaiju to pet, enormous heads peering in quiet curiosity over the ship’s bow. (Something, it must be said, the ship’s crew is less-than-enthusiastic about, but patently unable to prevent.)

Strength-Under-Sky, Geiszler had named the second kaiju. Or, she’d named herself. _I mean, like, not exactly,_ Geiszler had explained, in his messy handwritten scrawl. _It’s not like they speak English or whatever. But the feeling is close enough._ Meanwhile, Newton had run around shrieking, “They have _names_!” for a good ten minutes. Hermann is starting to worry he’s having some kind of joy-induced mental health episode.

They are . . . strange, Hermann thinks. The kaiju. Peaceful and curious, he’s possibly starting to see in them what Newton does. Maybe. Just a little.

And then the ship lurches, and Gipsy Danger strides out once more into the bay, and it is time.

“Thank you,” the Marshal tells Geiszler, extending a hand for him to shake. “I won’t say this hasn’t been . . . an experience. But thank you all the same.”

Geiszler gets through exactly one shake before he gives into the obvious temptation and pull the Marshal into an all-engulfing, back-slapping, hug. Pentecost, for his part, tolerates it rather well. He’s spent most of the day with Mako and Hermann suspects he’s starting to suspect his fate in the other universe was . . . not so fortunate. How can he blame the people who miss him?

After the Marshal, it’s Hermann and Newton’s turn; Geiszler engulfs them both in a crushing hug that lifts them right off the deck, and Newton laughs and Hermann splutters with the indignity of it, even as he doesn’t try to get away.

“Call sometime okay?” Newton shouts after him. “We’ll expect you at the wedding!”

“What wedding?” Hermann mutters, even as Geiszler waves and gives them more thumbs ups and climbs into Gipsy Danger’s enormous hand. He vanishes somewhere inside near the Conn-Pod, secure for the unusual return journey, and the Jaeger gives them all one final wave, and blows a kiss, then turns to the bay just as the sky tears open and Hermann has to look away, the light and the sound still too much.

It lasts thirty seconds, give or take. And then one final crash as the curtains of reality draw closed once more, and the next time Hermann looks up, the bay is empty; no kaiju, no Jaeger. Just the glow of the city and the artificial starlight of the ISS, passing overhead.

And it’s cold, and the rain is misting down, and Hermann’s hand finds Newton’s, and grips it tight.

* * *

One more thing:

Hermann feels it, the instance Newton passes the Throat. Nearly a whole interminable year of the connection in his brain feeling like a sluggish, lurching modem and suddenly it bursts open in a corona of broadband color as the temporal dilation resynchs, and Gipsy Danger and Otouto step out into the bay, new kaiju trailing timidly behind them.

_“Hi honey I’m hoooooooooooome!”_

Hermann sags with relief, the burden in his mind shared once more, so abruptly Hansen looks to him in alarm.

“Doctor?”

“It’s fine. Oh, Lord. They’re fine.”

A moment later the comm crackles to life, and Hansen wanders off to coordinate the expedition’s homecoming. He gives Hermann one encouraging shake on the shoulder as he does.

They’re in what Tendo Choi—and thus everyone else—has taken to calling G-LOCC, the command centre at the base of the Gate. Its structure a repurposed oil rig in design, looking over the three enormous metal spires of the Gate’s stabilization pillars, currently crackling with the last of the dissipating Breach energy. Hermann takes himself to the external platform, despite the heat and the filthy, muggy rain that sweeps down in jittering waves.

 _“Eight months? I was gone for_ eight months _?”_ A small shadow detaches itself from Gipsy Danger’s outstretched hand, plunging the hundred-plus feet into the bay.

Hermann sighs. “We found a crude way to return you after one,” he explains, Newton in the bay but here with Hermann at the rail, too. “But when it became clear we were not in temporal sync, coupled with your landing date, we felt it prudent to . . . invest a little further in a more substantial intervention.”

 _“So you built a fucking_ Stargate _? Seriously dude, what the actual fuck? How are you this fucking awesome? Also: eight months. Holy shit how are you not dead of blue balls?”_

Hermann sniffs. “Vanessa, obviously. Also, it’s not a ‘Stargate’, don’t be ridiculous.”

_“Oh right sorry it’s some other, totally non-copyright-infringing portal to other dimensions.”_

“If I wanted to open Breaches I’d do it in the lab. This facility is . . . different.”

 _“ . . . all right, Doctor Misunderstood Mad Science Genius. I can feel your smug from here. What did you_ do _?”_

“You recall the terrible trouble I was having with the energy efficiency coefficient on the h-field generators?” That it’d never scaled, that even collapsing micro-breaches took enough power to light up an entire province.

_“Ye-ee-ea-aa-ah?”_

“After your . . . disappearance”—a flash of light, a scream, an awful, soul-shattering silence—“I finally had sufficient data to work out why. It’s a property of the Breaches themselves. Manipulating them requires an absolutely phenomenal expenditure of energy, but once they’re open, they’re self-sustaining.”

And Hermann can feel it, Newton’s excitement as he realizes what this means. _“Dude._ Dude _. . .”_

“Moreover, it’s possible to induce a state of near-perpetual collapse; a quantum orbit around the Anteverse, if you will. Effectively forcing a Breach to output more energy than it consumes.”

 _“Holy fuck this is a_ power station _.”_ And here he is, bursting from the ocean, launching one handed over the railing (of course he shouts _“parkour!”_ into Hermann’s mind as he does it, of course). _“Dude this is a fucking . . . a fucking zero-point energy fucking power station? You built a perpetual fucking motion machine?”_ And then he’s picking Hermann up, still dripping grimy seawater, soaking Hermann’s clothes, spinning him around in a crushing hug, and it’s tremendously undignified and, also, Hermann never, ever wants it to stop.

“Lord I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into the soft scales of Newton’s neck.

_“Apparently enough to break the fundamental laws of physics to get me back!”_

“The fundamental laws of _this_ universe. And it’s still incredibly dangerous; this _is_ the Anteverse we’re talking about here, you do recall they rather spend quite a lot of time trying to utterly annihilate us. Not to mention we’re decades away from commercial use, at minimum. But, otherwise . . . yes. I am rather clever, aren’t I?” He allows himself a thin little smirk, enjoying the shake of Newton’s chest as he throws back his head and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 _“They’re gonna give you a Nobel Prize! They’re gonna give you_ all _the Nobel Prizes! They’re gonna fucking rename it the Hermann Gottlieb Prize for Extreme Scientific Badassery.”_

“I sincerely doubt that.”

_“I’ll make a new prize and call it that. Fuck those Nobel losers.”_

“I do hear they’ve rather gone downhill since they gave one to that dreadful Geiszler for his delirious nonsense.”

By now, Hermann’s feet have long since returned to the deck, though he can’t quite make himself let go of Newton. _“Fuck dude I’ve missed you. So much.”_

“You we’re gone for, what? Five days? And I was, technically, there the entire time.”

 _“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”_ Fond, but frustrated.

“How _were_ your adventures in babysitting our callow doppelgängers?”

Now Newton does step back, mostly to make melodramatic gestures with his large arms (his small ones still grip Hermann’s shoulders, as if he never intends to let go). _“Oh god they were such_ babies _, man! Tiny little fucking babies! It’s was all ‘waah I don’t wanna talk about feelings shit I just wanna scream and throw things and make bad life choices waah.’”_

“And what my younger self doing while yours was up to this?”

_“Har har. Also: putting the moves on yours truly.”_

“Yes, so you said.” In that brief period they’d spoken. Also the very strange few weeks of baffled arousal Hermann had recurved, dripped out from their frayed bond. “I hope he and his Newton reconciled?”

_“Disgustingly in love when I left. Holding hands in public and everything.”_

“How shameless!”

Newton laughs, and they embrace again, Hermann kissing Newton’s jaw and sending silent thanks to his counterpart’s naive lovesickness. Hermann knows Newton . . . worries. That they’re only together because of the Drift or, worse, because of the neural parasite. That somehow he’s brainwashed Hermann into loving him. Not quite the grotesquery the Anteverse intended for its Dominator kaijin, but an unsettling though all the same.

But if a Hermann with none of that, with no history, nothing to go on but who Newton was, as he is . . . if that Hermann could still find him desirable, find him lovable . . .

Hermann sighs, content.

“And I see you’ve acquired two new cousins.”

 _“Oh, yeah!”_ Newton turns them, looking out over the railing. _“Strength-Under-Sky,”_ he says, pointing to the creature in question. _“And apparently Ela named tail-girl over there Shahmaran.”_

The kaiju nose at each other, uncertain, while Otouto purrs at them in such joy Hermann can feel it radiating through the Hive.

“You were stretching the world’s patience with one. Lord only knows what we’ll do with three.”

 _“We could, like . . . squoosh them together.”_ Newton makes motions with his big hands, like a child mashing together Play-Doh. _“Make like one big giant kaiju. A mega kaiju!”_

“Ah, yes. A completely sane, normal idea from a completely sane, normal mind, with absolutely no moral, ethical, practical, and-or logistical downsides whatsoever.”

_“Kaiju Voltron! You can’t tell me that wouldn’t be totally fucking cool, you huge mecha-obsessed weeb. You love Voltron!”_

“Voltron is a robot, Newton. Not a living entity with its own thoughts and feelings. You’ll note your quote-unquote ‘plan’ went significantly less smoothly in _Evangelion_ , unless you’re trying to turn the entire world into undifferentiated red slurry.”

_“Aw, dude, you could totally fail to strangle me to death on a beach after Instrumentality any day.”_

“What a breathtakingly romantic offer. I swoon.”

 _“Also, counterpoint:_ Steven Universe _. The Gems are living entities_ and _silicon-based_ and _fusion is fucking badass! And super gay.”_

“Call me a dour soulless killjoy all you will, but I remain unconvinced that the Earth should be focusing its research efforts into replicating things you saw in cartoons as a child. Would you also like to create a portable hole? Perhaps paint that can turn a tromp l’oeil tunnel real.”

 _“I’m not taking any shit like that from the dude who built actual giant mecha_ and _a fucking Stargate. Also: shit yes those would be_ awesome _.”_

And Hermann grins, just a little, because, well. Newton is not wrong. Why else devote their lives how they have, if not to bring the fictional wonders of childhood into blinding, brilliant reality? Ever have things been thus; people must believe something _could_ be possible before they seek to make it so.

Silence, for a little while. Watching to kaiju play in the waves and the retreat of Gipsy Danger, ready to be returned to her bay. It’s still raining but, well. Hermann is already soaked through, and Newton’s head is an umbrella of sorts.

 _“They aren’t Leatherback and Otachi,”_ Newton finally says.

“No they are not.”

The both know what it implies; for however many universes there are out there, beyond the Breach, there is one Anteverse that preys upon them all. Likely in ways their minds can never truly fathom, existing outside of time and space and rationality as they know it.

 _“Maybe . . . maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Pitfall, I mean. Maybe we can’t just hit them once, from one place. Maybe we need to hit them from_ everywhere _, from every_ when _.”_

“Mm,” says Hermann. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it; a new War, a different front. One where they have a plan above and beyond a desperate, hardscrabble survival. Lord knows he doesn’t wish for it, Lord knows it goes against everything Newton’s tried to hold onto his entire life, but . . .

But. Si vis pacem, para bellum.

 _“We could do it.”_ Newton, mind blazing, claws curling around the deck’s handrail, not quite hard enough to tear. _“I_ want _to do it. I want to go to every other sad fucking dying universe, and I want to take all the Anteverse’s toys, and I want to make them ours, and I want to give them to every other dumbass versions of us out there, until we have an_ army _. Every us and every kaiju and every Jaeger and every PPDC and every Earth. And then I want to fucking kick down the Anteverse’s fucking door, and fucking_ obliterate _them. So they can never, ever come back.”_

“And then spit in the face of God while you’re at it, I suppose.”

_“I mean, fuck yeah. After all this shit I’m writing a strongly fucking worded letter, minimum.”_

They could do it, Hermann knows. But . . .

“Not today,” he says. “You just ended one war. Perhaps take a rec day before you start planning the next.” _Spend it with me,_ he doesn’t say. _I just got you back. We have time._ Newton hears it, because that’s how they are.

_“Yeah. Yeah, dude. Of course.”_

And Hermann sighs, and closes his eyes. Leaning back, feeling the rain and the sea spray and the warm, board chest as it breathes beneath him, steady and safe and alive and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking up one universe? Ahaha no; fucking up _every_ universe!
> 
> Also the _Steven Universe_ pilot aired, liked, a month before K-DAY so is totally fair game to exist here.
> 
>  _Get in between all the_  
>  _good and the wrong ways_  
>  _You make the floor move in all of my hallways_  
>  _We got it sweet now_  
>   
>  _[ain't nothing calling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbognioOx4M)._


End file.
